


souvenir.

by red__moon



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Confused Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Food Kink, Kink Exploration, London, Photography, Power Dynamics, Power Play, everyone is pretentious and talks about roland barthes, i can't stop writing about arty yuppies apparently, i've been reading too much donna tartt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28112985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red__moon/pseuds/red__moon
Summary: ''Have you seen Blow-Up?' I asked offhandedly.'Yeah,' Matty dropped his head again, taking two more cherries and rolling them between his fingers. 'Does this make you David Bailey?'I took one of the fruits from him and bit into it delicately, catching the juice with the back of my hand. 'Yes.'Alma takes photographs at parties, at her studio and for prestigious commissions. She's critically respected and highly sought after, but her photographs are only meant to capture a transient moment - there can be no messy entanglements, no interplay of emotions. But Alma and Matty are utterly fascinated by each other, against their better judgement. So when she takes his photograph, what is she really capturing? And what is she taking for herself?
Relationships: Matthew Healy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 14





	1. image was currency.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is pretty out there, compared to 'aphasia', but has been a LOT of fun to write. I've drawn on a lot of sources for inspiration here, including a couple of my favourite films, some interesting academic texts and most importantly, an excellent fic by a writer I really respect. It's unlikely they'll read this, but if they do - you're a shining light. 💫  
> DISCLAIMER: I don't know as much about photography as I do about music. Please forgive any minor inaccuracies.
> 
> C/W for dubcon (not Matty, because consent is sexy and so is he)

As usual, I kept quiet.

Farah liked to host, more than any of us - she considered herself a tastemaker, in that she liked to think she influenced the people around her, bringing out unusual food or playing some music that nobody had heard but was meant to capture our fascination. And then inevitably someone would have heard it before, and I could see in Farah's eyes that she was intensely disappointed. Occasionally an outsider was present, some friend of a friend she had procured for the night, for all our entertainment. I liked when this happened. It threw a new dynamic into the mix; people spoke and acted differently around a complete stranger, endeavouring to present a more curated version of themselves than their usual, scattershot projections. It meant that my lens was no longer the only objective eye in the room. Candid shots were easier.

This evening, the room was particularly dim. It was mid-autumn, just after the clocks had gone back, so when natural light faded, it took us a little longer to realise the lamps would need switching on at seven, not eight. It was smoky, too, with two or three joints being passed around. I perched on a footstool, my head leaning against the mantelpiece beside an old heater in place of a real fire. 

Farah held court at one end of the sofa, clutching Owen’s elbow intermittently whenever she shrieked with laughter or shock, which was often, whilst he gazed soppily at her. It was common knowledge that Owen was devoted to Farah, who treated him like a lapdog more than a close friend. Sometimes I wondered if it might be kinder for someone to tell him she’d never fuck him, but I certainly hadn’t the heart, and he had a contact for top grade coke, so nobody wanted to put him off coming to these evenings either. In the armchair adjacent to Farah sat Stefan, and on Stefan’s lap sat Molly, probably my favourite person there. She caught my eye from across the room and raised a pale eyebrow laconically, which I felt duty-bound to capture with my lens.

Frankie sat beside the newcomer on the sofa opposite, and they might have matched, if Frankie’s curls were less ginger and if he were less outrageously camp. This guy hardly radiated machismo though; his legs were crossed elegantly, and his restless hands turned a lighter over and over, the nails painted unevenly. Another four people lined the living room, but I didn’t know them so well, an ex of Frankie’s who he seemed to be on good terms with, and some old UAL friends of Farah’s.

‘Alma?’ Owen waved a joint in my direction, ash floating down onto the shag pile carpet. I took it from him, inhaling gingerly and holding the breath for a couple of seconds before letting it out again, the smoke pluming in front of my face. It was strong, and after passing it along, I paused and stared into the middle distance, waiting for the initial light-headedness to subside. I was halfway through my first roll, but it was colour, and my next one was black and white, so I snapped away quite freely, keen to capture the best part of the night in monochrome.

My gaze flitted from face to face, observing which ones were the most animated, or the most poised. I got to my feet soundlessly; everybody there was used to my roving, except the newcomer, who glanced sideways at me for a moment as if he had just remembered my presence. He was quickly drawn back to the conversation at hand though, which was just what I wanted. What I  _ needed _ , really, was to be invisible to everyone, past a certain point - to be merely a fly on the wall.

Farah gesticulated wildly to punctuate an anecdote from her recent trip to visit her parents in Toulouse. Molly leaned back, her eyelids drooping slightly from the heavy atmosphere, and Stefan mumbled something indiscernible in her ear - captured. All of this, I saw through my camera, pausing only occasionally to judge the light before bringing it up to my eye again.

The subjects of conversations were of less interest to me than the way they made people act and interact. Frankie buzzed away about some video shoot he was working on, and the newcomer reacted with sudden excitement when they realised they had a mutual friend, his face lighting up with animation and his knees knocking together as he twisted slightly. Making sure my flash was off, I took about three or four shots surreptitiously, and paused, just as someone flicked the hall light on and his profile was semi-silhouetted for a few moments, delicate and almost feminine. Nothing about him was severe exactly, and yet anyone else’s features might have seemed unremarkable as a result. But this man was expressive enough that he appeared quite pretty instead. It helped that he was slender and crowned with a head of curls so dark they appeared black in this light. He could have played a Reid brother in a Jesus and Mary Chain biopic. 

I pressed the shutter twice more, slinking away before he noticed my scrutiny. Farah chose well; he was photogenic. I wondered what he did. Frankie tried to engage him on the subject of a documentary he was editing, but from what I could overhear, that didn’t seem to be his speciality. I made a mental note to ask Farah later. Her kitchen was distressingly untidy, but not completely unhygienic; the washing up was done, but glasses and plates were stacked haphazardly at various stages of drying. The cold lights made me blink a few times as my eyes adjusted, and I opened the fridge door, ready to ransack the shelves for the fancy sort of deli bits she often bought from the Wholefoods round the corner, on Parkway.

‘Al!’ Molly’s voice startled me, and I slammed the fridge shut, making the jars and bottles jangle together alarmingly. She leaned across the surface of the island, sticking her finger in a pot of hummus and licking it off. ‘Can I drop your name to my editor?’

‘What for?’ I removed the camera from around my neck, where its weight was beginning to create an ache. ‘I probably won’t say no though.’

‘She was complaining the other day about the gallery pieces we’ve been doing. Says the photographers are all glorified Martin Parr wannabes. I think your work would impress her, in comparison.’

‘Alright then, drop my name. We’ll see what comes of it.’

‘What have you been taking this evening?’ She pulled the camera across the countertop by its leather strap, her face falling upon seeing the plain, flat surface beneath the viewfinder. ‘Oh, no digitals? I quite fancy posting something.’

I chuckled at her disappointment. ‘Sorry, film only tonight. I can still whip out my phone though. Want to recline across the counter?’

‘No thanks. Stefan might get jealous,’ she smirked.

‘Go and sit on him again then, and I’ll take something classy enough to frame for his birthday.’

Bribing my friends with good photos worked so well. Image was currency these days, since nobody could turn down a flattering, stylishly lit photograph taken with a professional eye. Fortunately for me, it had translated into literal currency too, and sometimes I almost felt guilty knowing how many other young, talented photographers had studied and hustled and networked only to give up and take a dull office job.  _ Almost _ . I knew that I was good. I knew I deserved the fee I commanded, and the apartment it paid for. But success is a spectrum, and there was still so far to go.

I followed Molly out of the kitchen, hovering in the doorway to the living room again as she sauntered back to Stefan’s lap. Farah reclined halfway across Owen’s shoulder, who looked like he might faint from joy, though she still faced away from him and snapped her fingers in emphasis at some raucous joke she was enjoying with Frankie’s ex. My gaze travelled back to the newcomer, magnetically. All I could see was the back of his head, and the curls that bounced a little every time he moved. He was rather twitchy.

‘Still… stay still,’ I muttered to myself, looping the camera strap back over my neck and lifting the viewfinder. His voice became clearer, a stopping-and-starting line of conversation that everyone craned to hear.

‘The thing is, I didn’t even study at a higher level, you know? I got, like, three GCSEs. But if people keep asking you - no,  _ begging  _ you to write properly, it’s hard to say no. But who am I to stake a claim in that art form? I don’t know, does it change depending on the form, or the audience? The scale of it? I’m sure you,’ - he gestured towards Frankie - ‘have an opinion on the whole thing.’

‘Ha!’ Frankie snorted. ‘Formal education is overrated. Get that paper, you know? Everyone and their mum is picking up their phone and making art. But I’m not  _ concerned _ , fuck that. Nobody’s treading on my toes.’

‘That’s because Frankie believes his work belongs at Frieze,’ Molly cut in.

‘Girl, I never said explicitly, but who am I to correct you…’

‘There’s no distinction between high and low culture any more, is there? Like there’s still the two extremes, but the line is so blurred,’ the newcomer wondered, accepting another joint passed along from Stefan.

‘And they both copy each other anyway. It’s so satisfying when something independently made, with so few expectations, really hits big. Like an underdog,’ Molly said.

Farah made a  _ tsk  _ sound. ‘But the arts are still so dominated by people who had the means and the mentorship to submit a fucking bomb portfolio to CSM or the Slade.’

‘Well, what do you suggest?’ Stefan raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m not a politician, mate. If I had all the answers, do you think I’d be running around doing Julia’s bidding?’

‘Who?’ The newcomer frowned.

‘Julia Mellors. You know?’

‘Oh… yeah. Saw an article recently -’

‘That’ll be the Dazed one, I almost tore my hair out at the shoot. She had to have a  _ specific  _ shade of lipstick. I could have murdered her.’

With an empty, whirring sound, my camera complained and announced the film was all used up. A couple of eyes swivelled in my direction, piercing me where I crouched, just behind Owen’s shoulder.

‘Don’t mind me,’ I muttered. Eyes swivelled back. But the newcomer’s stayed trained on me for a few seconds longer, and I stared right back. He didn’t smile exactly, but his face softened into something resembling a smirk, perhaps a little warmer. Faint recognition - not of me personally, but of my purpose, my place. I wondered what he thought. If he respected what I was doing. Some people were funny about it - Farah would have told him beforehand that I was taking photographs, since some people were notable enough to be concerned about the way their image was used. Was  _ he _ notable? To me, maybe. But objectively? There was something familiar about him. But then, I’d photographed so many faces that a solid seventy five percent blurred into one, amorphous mass.

Although I was done shooting for the evening, I wasn’t any more likely to join in the conversation, besides the occasional agreement, if a subject required concurrence. The smoke made my head heavy; I was loathe to fall asleep at one of Farah’s parties, it appeared pitiful. I quit coke the year before. I was going to need a strong coffee.

***

The machine gurgled alarmingly, competing with the deafening clatter of the rain on the slanted roof above my head. I zoned out, watching the coffee fall into my mug in two black, steaming lines. A dull ache pulsed behind my temples; I didn’t drink espresso for its taste.

I hadn’t bothered setting myself an alarm, instead letting my body recoup lost energy and sleeping in until midday, though the light that filtered through the large windows was weak and grey. The traffic hummed on the main road, muffled by the thick walls of the flat, and I was slumped at the kitchen table with the half-full mug, gazing out at the back patio where puddles were starting to form. Living alone was a luxury still not lost on me; only three years before I shared a place with four others in Walthamstow. Although it had a mould problem and a dodgy boiler, I had fond memories of that house - it had an enormous basement that nobody else used, so I used to shoot there. I shot on film less and less now, being able to manipulate my equipment and software properly. A couple of commissions became a steady trickle, which became a series of campaigns and a reliable reputation for unfussy, naturalistic editorials. Like I said - I was one of the lucky ones, booked and busy. A zero-point-one-percenter.

I picked up my laptop from the other end of the table, and carried it over to the sofa, tapping the trackpad lightly to wake it up. True to her word, Molly really was keen to push my work under her editor’s nose, plus it must have been a slow news day, because I already had an email from Vice in my inbox, beneath a slew of back-and-forths I’d been copied into about the following week’s bookings, and a confirmation of a payment in response to an invoice. The latter felt especially good; I filed it away in its own folder. But Vice were asking tentatively for a selection of unpublished work - something along the lines of my outtakes and recent personal shots, outside of commissions.

My camera still sat where I left it last night, the case nestled between the cushions of the sofa. I lifted it out and flipped the film door open, extracting the finished roll and slotting it into a canister for safe-keeping, which I reflexively tossed back and forth in my hands as I re-read the email. A seed of curiosity grew at the back of my mind. The images I captured last night seemed so promising in the viewfinder, and in my memory - not that I would know for sure until I got them back from the lab, but I still wondered if it was just wishful thinking. I got dressed lazily, writing my response to Molly’s editor in my head.  _ Flattered to be asked - in the process of curating - sending over images ASAP.  _ And an hour later, I gave in to curiosity. 

The lab I used was far from a big-time, professional joint. It was just Phil, one of my old tutors from university, and his ramshackle enterprise working from his garage with several very noisy machines and a powerful chemical smell that he expunged from the room with a series of even noisier ventilation grilles and fans. The results were stellar though, and he charged me mates’ rates; I wouldn’t think of going anywhere else. I gathered up a couple more canisters that had been waiting in the wings for their moment, threw them in my bag and left the flat.

I stuck to a route along Regent’s Canal, taking me westward from Cambridge Heath towards Essex Road. It was a cold, crisp winter morning, with a fine mist hovering inches above the water; a couple of dog walkers and cyclists passed me by, eyes resolutely turned away to avoid contact. It irritated my mother when she visited, thinking that everyone in London was too stuck up to exchange niceties, but I enjoyed the anonymity. I didn’t envy some of the people I’d photographed, except perhaps their divine wardrobes. Another perk to my improbable success - my face sparked no recognition, and my name provided just enough for a small ego boost when I checked into a hotel. But that was all.

Phil was slow in coming to the door, his footsteps echoing heavily in the hallway. He was the sort of nonchalant middle aged guy who’d open the door and instantly walk away again, trusting that you knew the routine; true to form, he did it now. He gave off the air of a klutz, but in life resembled a wealthy geography teacher, never less than impeccably dressed. Everybody enjoyed his workshops at uni, for the simple fact that he refused to take art quite so seriously as every other member of faculty. The price they paid for that was his frank judgements of their work, as it followed the same logic - if art was not to be taken too seriously, then surely it didn’t matter too much if said art was trashed in one breath or lauded in the next.

‘Alma, would you do me a favour and grab the milk from the step? I forgot we had a delivery...’

It took a few seconds to find what he was talking about, and I rolled my eyes when I spotted the brimming glass bottles beside one of his half-dead potted palms. ‘You’re in Islington, not deepest Dorset. Why don’t you just pop down the road like everyone else?’

‘It’s the little things, you know. Sparking joy and all that crap that JJ has got me onto. What have you brought for me today, then? Ilford?’

‘Just a couple. Any chance you can turn these around today if I throw in another tenner?’

‘Darling, for you, I can turn them around within the hour. Hand them over and grab a coffee if you want one.’

And  _ this  _ was also why I wouldn’t go anywhere else. More than once I’d fallen asleep with a mug in my hand, one of the funny homemade ceramics created by his partner, Jan. ‘You’re a star, thanks.’

I remembered taking rolls of film to the photo shops as a teenager, when I was still taking clumsy snapshots of my friend Ruth. We would ride the train to Great Yarmouth, buy ice-creams and meet her older sister Emma at the end of her shift at the aquarium, hitching a ride home in her car. The sunsets over the Broads were spectacular, and often we pulled over on summer evenings to sit beside the water, watching cows slowly make their way across the soggy farmland. I became such a regular at the photo shop in Norwich that they gave me a sort of loyalty discount, as I spent any cash I had on developing pictures of Ruth cross-legged on the bonnet of Emma’s car; the two girls caught mid-sibling-argument on the promenade; the time we dragged a couple of boys we fancied along for the ride. And while I waited to see my creations come to life, I would sneak past the bored ticket boy at Vue to watch whatever was showing on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes it would be a blockbuster, or a dull action sequel, but occasionally I caught reruns of eighties and nineties arthouse films, exposing me to a whole other way of seeing the world through a 4:3 ratio. Either way, two hours usually did the job.

But now, for Phil, it took less than an hour, so I was able to get home before the afternoon’s early dusk drew in, pulling its oppressive hue across the sky. I could see my face reflected back at me in the glass patio door, lit up in the glow of my laptop as I watched the frames fill up the new folder. The moment of truth, then.

The first few shots were of Farah, the gentle light reflecting off her gold jewellery just as I envisioned. This was the colour roll. Normally I slowly rolled through them before pulling aside the ones I might edit, but out of impatience and curiosity, I scrolled to the other end, seeking out a particular silhouette, outlined in monochrome. The Ilford stock had a pleasant grain to it that evoked the hazy unreality of the evening, the fact that we were all more than a little stoned. And there he was, that unusually pretty man, his curls glossy and defined by the dramatic shadows cast across his features. God, his profile was incredible. He was blessed.

I wanted to use these photos, badly. Almost all of the ones with him in, anyway, and maybe a few of Molly looking ethereal, a fairy-like creature perched on Stefan’s knee, his face stony as usual. But the new guy, he was radiant, his dark clothes and pale face favoured by the monochrome film. I’d found myself face to face with models on shoots who were intimidatingly beautiful - you almost didn’t want to get too close. It made my personal rule easier to abide by; if I fancied the subject, it was understandable, but the photographer relationship was to go no further than pleasantries. They were out of bounds, or as the old edict went:  _ don’t shit where you eat _ . This one wasn’t without flaws, he wasn’t terrifyingly sculpted or inhumanly graceful. But he was just so lovely to look at. I wanted these to be published, to show the world that I could capture an addictive face.

_ out of curiosity, who was the new guy at yours last night?  _ I texted Farah.  _ i didn't catch his name but need a contact, he's in a couple of shots i'm sending to Vice. _

_ oh, Matty? been trying to get him to come down for ages, so glad he made it at last. _

_ you didn't know him?! you of all people?? _

_ he's escaped my radar i guess? what's he do? _

_ dude. Matty Healy. look him up. _

I wasn’t surprised Farah was so piqued at my cluelessness. She seemed to have an impression of me as omniscient when it came to public figures, under the misguided impression that I was in thrall to them. If that were really the case, it would have made me pretty hopeless at my job.

Still, I did a perfunctory Google. Yes, I recognised the band - and lead singer, well, that figured. Though, from what I remembered, unusually articulate. Generally speaking, that industry tended to put puppets on a pedestal, elevating the kind of malleable personalities that were happy to act as mouthpieces for good PR. There had to be a catch. Maybe his music was shit? I didn't listen though, just in case it wasn't, because that would only confound me. There was  _ always _ a catch.

_ alright... i see now. can you pass his number or email along to me? _

_ only got his number: _

Below, Farah attached the contact, and I composed a message with wince-inducing formality.

_ Hi Matty, apologies for messaging out of the blue. This is Alma, I was taking photos at Farah's last night. I've been asked by Vice for a few outtakes from my current work, and I was hoping to use a few of the ones that feature you. Is there an email address I can forward them to, along with a consent form? _

His response was prompt, and to the point.  _ sure they’re wicked. take this as my consent. x _

And that was enough for me, in writing. I was relieved, but a small part of me wished he was more keen to see the pictures for himself. Most people liked to, out of curiosity, vanity or self-flagellation. Either way, they were usually pleased with what they saw, and I had hoped that Matty would be no exception. Not that I knew his taste, but who on earth didn’t like to be captured looking like some mid-century intellectual-cum-Beat poet? He looked so animated in those images, and in fact, more than anything else, he looked like he was the one holding court, not Farah, or Frankie. I didn’t know how I had failed to work it out sooner - that he performed for a living.

_ Revised direction  _ \- I typed out a new email to Vice.  _ Please note - new curation - narrow range, but of substantially better quality _ . It veered off the brief slightly, but they published niche features all the time. And I’d rather anything with my name on it had a semblance of coherence to it. What was the point of just slapping some photos online with the strapline ‘Alma Bergmann took these’?

The only other people that featured heavily in the photos were my own friends, so it only took another quick round of messages to check they were happy to publish. With a tinny ‘whoosh’ sound, like something catapulted into flight, the email returned to Molly’s editor, and at last the images would be out there for all to see.


	2. lovely manners.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alma is surprised by the reception to her latest Vice feature, and receives a slightly last-minute request that she finds she can't turn down.

The piece was published later that week, late on Thursday. By Friday morning I had to change the settings on my phone to avoid it crashing altogether, the reception was so forceful. I hadn't anticipated this, thinking that at best it would be a nice addition to my portfolio, exemplary of my abilities outside the confines of a studio. But the comments and mentions were incessant: _i've never seen him look so good! - omg where is this?? - who even took these? i wanna KNOW._

Of course - Vice had taken the liberty of naming my subject in their strapline, and now my name had entered the consciousness of his followers. I found it quite funny, more than anything else. My social media accounts amassed another couple of hundred followers each, and some of them had joined the dots, seeing older posts about editorials with models or actors they recognised. I hadn't photographed many musicians; it was a saturated market, so I didn't feel the need to elbow my way in.

Frankie and I had lunch scheduled, whilst he was on a break from a day's filming in King's Cross. He was already perfectly aware of the feature's success, and enjoyed knowing he was one of the subjects, so I had appealed to his vanity in this way.

'You've made me look quite suave. I was just thinking the other day how I'd been looking rough lately, needing a haircut or something... and you've boosted my ego completely. All except for this one,' he pulled up the article on his screen, scrolling through the frames. 'You did me dirty here, Al. Or _he_ did, rather.' It was the shot of them sitting side by side on the sofa, Matty's hand flipped out in support of whatever point he was making, his palm up, and Frankie resting his chin in his hands, leaning back into the cushions.

'What are you on about?' I said. 'You're just sitting, listening. You look perfectly normal.'

'Maybe so, but next to _that_ unearthly creature, I could be a cave ogre. No wonder it's set Twitter alight.'

This made me snort in disbelief over my coffee. 'Oh god, that's the last thing I set out to do. Don't put yourself down Frankie, you've already _been_ namechecked by Vice. And look, they've named you in the caption too.'

'Mm, and they've spelled your name right for once, two Ns.'

'Gosh, the bar is on the floor.' I took a large sip of my americano, pulling a face. 'I thought this place was known for its coffee, I wonder why this stuff's so bitter...'

He glanced around at the other clientele, laptops and notebooks accompanying half of them, probably on lunch meetings. The restaurant was one of the converted grain stores around the back of the station, complete with high rafters and self-important waiters. 'I won't book it again then. Shall we ask for the bill? I'll get this one.'

As Frankie went to fetch our coats from the hooks on one wall, my phone pinged again, and I tutted to myself. I'd already switched off so many notifications, how many more could I have missed?

_hiya, got a favour to ask!_

It was an unsaved contact, the number unfamiliar. I frowned at the screen, opening the conversation up fully and seeing the history from earlier in the week. It was him - Matty. He was still typing, three dots blinking at me.

_i really love the photos from the weekend, and had a look at your other work, which got me thinking... i've got a shoot with dazed on monday afternoon and would be super grateful if you could step in. would you be up for it? or is that totally brazen of me?_

'Wow,' I mumbled under my breath, just as Frankie handed me my coat.

'What is it?'

'Remember that guy from Farah's, Matty?'

'Healy? Why's he messaging you? Not that... I mean, I didn't see you two talk before.'

'Well, exactly.' I raised my brow at him, tucking my phone back in my pocket. 'He loves the photos I took. Wants me to shoot him for Dazed next Monday.'

'Oh, fuck. That's short notice, for Dazed.' Frankie looked taken aback as we stepped outside, lighting a cigarette and pulling his funny hipster beanie over his head, which he wore only half-ironically. 'What are you going to say?'

'I think I'm going to say yes. I don't know who's on the team, but I'll ask Molly, she's bound to know.'

'Booked and blessed, Alma. It's a good place to be.' He exhaled, winking. The puffs of smoke were whipped away in an instant, the bitter November air pinching colour into his freckled cheeks. 'I need to get back. The sound assistant is driving me nuts, doesn't seem to know how to hold a boom right...'

And with an airy kiss on the cheek, he was gone. I wasn't in the mood to go straight home, but encouraged myself by finding a supermarket, buying a bottle of wine, and wandering into a bookshop on Caledonian Road. Half an hour later I exited with three new purchases, and jumped on the overground home. I composed a response to Matty on the train, aware of his casual tone and adapting my own.

 _thanks! can't take too much credit though, it's not hard to get a good photo of you._ Oh dear, blatant flattery? Maybe.

_not at all brazen - monday is fine, let the team know to get in touch with me and they'll sort paperwork etc._

_it's a studio in old st, can forward you the address. thanks, i'm grateful for this x_

Leaning back in my seat and turning to one side, the Victorian terraces and streets flew by as the train crossed over northern suburbs into eastern ones. Intrigued by his request, I couldn't help myself from speculating. The team would have booked the shoot with a photographer in mind, surely - so who had been thrown over in favour of me? It was unusual for the subject to take charge of factors like the photographer. The email I received later that evening confirmed my suspicions, and then some.

_We're grateful you're able to come on board, Matty was quite insistent. To avoid cancelling altogether, we've agreed to honour his request. Please find attached further details and invoice as required._

It almost sounded like he'd issued them an ultimatum - me or no one. I wasn't sure whether or not to feel embarrassed, but really, it was more flattering than anything else, so I basked in the implied compliment for a while.

***

I had a sort of uniform for shoots, to appear consistent and memorable - white shirt, white jeans. It also had the effect of making me look like an active artist, someone not afraid to get stuck in and control the process. Pressing the shirt first thing in the morning then became a ritual that told me that I would be looking in a certain way that day, seeing everything within a frame, all lines and balance. If I knew who I'd be photographing personally, I would think idly about how they were likely to be in the studio, how they'd present themselves and how comfortable they might be in front of the lens. With Matty, it was impossible to tell since my contact with him had been minimal.

The only people in the studio that I knew were the hair girl and the lighting assistant, the latter being an acquaintance from St Martins. I exchanged small talk with them before unloading my camera and gear, my gaze searching for the editor I had liaised with. When the studio door opened with a heavy, creaking yawn, she strode in, tailed by Matty, who already looked bored. I got to my feet, already feeling an attack of shyness coming on and trying to shake it off like the professional I was supposed to be. Even in the harsh light of the studio, his looks were disarming.

'Hi Alma, I'm Caroline, we spoke over email.' She stuck a hand out in greeting, and I shook it, feeling the cold knuckles of her hand and silver rings in the process. Her hair was a pale, bleached bob and her blouse looked to be ivory silk, completing the glacial impression. 'I gather you two know one another?'

'Not, uh-' I cleared my throat and met Matty's gaze. His expression was a mixture of apologetic and convivial; he blinked and smiled softly, his eyes seeming to ask me to embellish the truth. 'Not well, but... mutual friends...' I answered lamely.

'Oh? Interesting.' Her tone disagreed with her words. 'Now as we've discussed, it's very low-key, just an accompaniment to the conversation in print, so there's no wardrobe changes...'

I tuned Caroline out, since she was repeating herself. I didn't suffer pompous editors gladly. Part of what made Matty's request so surprising was the low stakes of the job itself - it was hardly a big, theatrical production, only a natural approach and simple gear was required. I didn't even need to go back to college and recruit a student to assist, like I tried to with Vogue or Love, to give them exposure and a day on the job. He could really have settled for anyone, so unspecific and bland was the brief. And yet he'd insisted on me.

Benny on lighting gave me the thumbs up, and Caroline excused herself, as I began to make a few adjustments and called out to him what needed moving. Matty stood in the centre of the backdrop with his arms crossed. I felt bad for not having been able to speak to him properly yet, but I reasoned that I was the one who'd arrived early, so I was hardly at fault. I stepped towards him, holding the light meter out.

'I think you're enjoying this more than you let on,' I said quietly, catching his eye briefly as I worked, walking back and forth from my tripod. He swiped some errant curls out of his eyes, his smile growing wider, but he didn't reply. I started to shoot without much ceremony.

'Can I smoke?' He asked suddenly, and I looked to Caroline, who shrugged indifferently.

'Go ahead,' I nodded, lifting the camera to hold it freely in my hand and keeping it close to my eye. 'Do you want to sit down? Just to appear more relaxed.'

'Do I give off the impression that I'm not?' Matty asked hesitantly, lowering himself to the floor anyway and crossing one leg over the other. _Snap_. He extracted a pack of cigarettes from the inner pocket of his jacket, the fringed leather on the sleeves swinging gently as he lit up.

'Most people hold themselves oddly when they don't have something to lean on,' I said, stepping closer towards him. _Snap._ 'But by all means, do what feels natural.'

'I actually find this stuff easier when they put me in some flashy clothes. Gives you a facade. Makes you feel less exposed.'

This time it was me who didn't reply, not wanting to get him talking too much and ruin a series of shots. I crouched down in front of him, acutely aware of the quiet chatter of others behind us in the room. Despite his words, he clearly didn't actually have much reticence towards being photographed, if any. He raised his chin slightly, proudly staring down the lens, and I lifted my own head, removing the camera as an intermediary between us for a moment. I pressed the shutter without looking through the viewfinder, lowering it further and flickering my attention between his face and the camera in my hands.

'Fantastic,' I murmured, shuffling back onto my heels. _Snap._ The laptop behind me registered each capture, and out of the corner of my eye I could tell they were striking.

'Yeah?' Matty blinked at me hopefully. _Snap_.

'Yes. I don't lie. Or exaggerate.'

'Good,' he said, sucking on the cigarette sharply and twitching his head slightly to the side, flicking some hair out of the way. He had very even, pale skin, and lips that were pink like a girl's. Even the little imperfections, the scattering of moles, the hint of stubble he'd missed on his jaw and slightly sallow under-eyes, they all pointed to a sort of faded glamour. He wavered back and forth in his expressions, one moment carrying a melancholy, almost innocent boyishness and in the next, something dark and indecorous in his eyes that made me want to step back again, afraid to get too close. He never stayed still, constantly moving his hands and adjusting the tilt of his body; it was a good thing, I thought, that I had set my shutter speed so fast.

It was growing warm under the studio lights, and Matty fanned himself once or twice. 'You can take that off, if you want,' I commented, gesturing to his jacket. He obliged, shrugging it off his shoulders. He wore a red silk shirt underneath, buttoned halfway up. A necklace lay on the bare skin of his chest, a very fine, plain gold chain. There was a tattoo there too, though I tried not to stare too hard to work out what it was. I was surprised at how much this unsettled me.

Half an hour passed in the blink of an eye. I could have gone on for longer, but Caroline stepped in to wrap things up. She'd been keeping an eye on the laptop, making approving noises at what she saw, and seemed to think she had plenty of material to choose from for the print edition. I cycled through the previews on the camera screen, and nodded towards Matty, prompting him to take a break.

'Go on. Have a stretch and a drink or something, you'll need it.'

'Thanks.' He got to his feet breathlessly, casting another glance back at me as he wandered over to where he'd discarded his jacket, pulling his phone from another of the pockets. I began to pack up, and Benny came over to greet me properly and engage in small talk.

'Again, we're so flattered that you've been willing to turn this around at short notice,' Caroline twittered in my ear, and I mustered a smile in return. 'You must be very busy.'

'This was no bother.' I pulled the last zips across on my cases. 'You _are_ paying my rate, after all.'

'Well, we'll get those invoices cleared promptly, and I'll have a word with Jordan, see if we can sort a larger editorial piece in the spring...'

Matty appeared at her side, and she turned her attention to him for a moment, but he tore away as I made to leave, touching my elbow gingerly. 'Alma, have you got a few minutes?'

I nodded, shifting my bag on my shoulder. 'Yeah. I'll wait out front for a bit.'

'Okay. Thanks.'

I'd brought a navy scarf to break up my monochromatic white get-up, and I wrapped it tightly around my neck as I hovered on the step of the building, tucking my chin under the thick wool to defend against the frosty breeze. I didn't have to wait very long at all; barely five minutes passed before the heavy steel door opened and Matty stepped out again.

'I'm sorry you had to wait in the cold, I just didn't want to miss the opportunity to get a proper introduction, you know, and you've already done me a favour, so...' he gushed, tailing off nervously. He pulled the cigarette pack out again and brandished it in the air. 'Smoke?'

'Go on then,' I hid my smile in the scarf, hugging my coat around me more tightly. He lit two in his mouth and passed one to me, in a move that seemed mildly provocative.

'I'll buy you a coffee, yeah?'

'Okay then,' I surveyed him cautiously. 'That's not a question, is it?'

'Oh, um...' he chewed his lip, betraying jitters. 'Fuck, I didn't mean-'

'I'm only messing. This way.' I turned away, crossing the street.

'Where are we going?'

'Rivington Street. Best coffee around here.'

Matty jogged a little to catch up with me. It fascinated me that a man as pretty and confident as him could still be teased. I had half expected to lose that power struggle, but some still proved to be easy. I didn't want him to get the wrong idea though; I was quietly delighted to keep his company.

He bought two flat whites for us at Fix, and sat precariously on one of the stools in the window, watching me stir sugars into the steaming milk. 'I didn't realise who you were, last weekend.'

'At Farah's?' He nodded. 'What do you mean?' I frowned.

'I've heard of you. I didn't put two and two together until I saw the Vice article - Alma Bergmann. Your name... is it German?'

'My mum,' I nodded, tasting my coffee. It seemed sweet enough now. 'I took her maiden name for my career. My dad's is Baker, that was less appealing.'

'Right,' Matty kept stirring, more out of an urge to fidget than anything else, I suspected. 'There's something that you manage to capture. A depth of movement, or... I'm sorry, I don't really know what I'm talking about.'

'You're an artist, aren't you?' I raised my eyebrows. 'So on some level, you do.'

'Alright. You made me look like I had real significance. Some people revel in mundanity, or they photograph the remarkable and either make the beauty cheap with poor... editing, I think, or play it all down too much.' His cheeks flushed with concentration on his words, and he spoke with his hands as much as his mind. 'But you have the skill to elevate quite simple moments, that might not be saying anything or carry much meaning, but in your images they're suddenly quite memorable. Like some small phenomenon that everyone else has missed or ignored.'

'Thank you.' I crossed my legs primly, taking another sip of my coffee. 'That's nicer than any feedback I got at college.'

'Just my impression,' he shrugged, staring down at his knees, where his clasped hands rested. 'That was partially what was so interesting about Farah's party. It can feel pretentious sometimes, to discuss really big artistic, philosophical ideas so openly, but that wasn't the case. And I kind of want to be an auto-didact. You know?'

'Oh, yeah. I taught myself most of what I know before I even arrived in London. Art school was more of a vehicle than anything else, and everything else I learned came from my fellow students - so, people like Farah and Frankie.'

'Frankie? He was the red-head, right? The one I sat next to?'

'Yes - he's a filmmaker, insanely accomplished, always has been. I'm quite amazed by the feats of others. Or maybe they were all just incredibly precocious, I don't know.' My gaze drifted out of the window onto the street outside, watching a middle-aged man try to rein in a little Jack Russell from dashing into the road. 'You can outgrow your own adolescence - you have to, in many ways - but it helps to remember the principles it gave you. Like, art is fun, first and foremost. If it becomes a feasible career, that's incredibly fortunate.'

Matty wore an expression of intense focus, seeming like he was about to speak, and then pausing to consider his words again, his lips shaping the beginning of the next. 'How old are you? If you don't mind me asking.'

'Twenty six. You?'

'Twenty seven. It's a weird time.'

'Do you feel it?'

'My age? Fuck, no. I still act like I'm twenty one. In some ways,' he added hurriedly. 'Not all.'

'That's not terrible. There's plenty of time for wisdom, yet.' I drained the last of the coffee from my cup, hopping down from my chair. 'I have to go, I'm afraid, I need to be somewhere.'

'Oh - yeah, of course. I'm sorry for keeping you.'

'Why are you sorry?' I wondered aloud at his apology. It seemed out of place.

'I don't know,' he answered truthfully. 'It just seemed polite.'

'You _are_ polite. You don't have to force it.' I lifted my bag from the floor and hoisted it back onto my shoulder again. 'Thanks for the coffee, Matty,' - and then, just to tease him again - 'lovely manners.' I kissed his cheek breezily and left him at the window of the cafe, heading back to Great Eastern Street to hail a cab. It was only once I was cosily belted into the passenger seat of the taxi that I released the deep breaths I'd been restraining, pressing my lips together and relishing the tiny memory of how the skin of his jaw had felt. I'd taken myself aback at my daring.

Why was I being so careless with him? It would hardly have hurt to humour him a little more, be softer, let him charm me. But I found a semblance of control in holding people at arm's length, when they intimated that they wanted to get closer. And so I had lied; there was no legitimate reason that I should have ended coffee with Matty quite so early. I had sensed the success of the conversation, my awe at his thought process, and pulled back. Not only this but I had to uphold my principle of keeping myself aloof at work, maintaining professional cordiality and a reputation for exquisite work - _not_ mix-ups and flirtations with the beautiful subjects of my photographs. So the kiss on the cheek was an overkill, yes. No more of that then.

I saw darkness drawing in, the shortened day making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end; Shoreditch in the evening felt decadent, and risky. This made me sound positively Victorian, but in fact, I reserved night-time for very different affairs.

My phone vibrated with a message from one of those affairs.

_change of plans tonight, i can swing by yours if you're around?_

And there, at last, was a legitimate reason.


	3. comforting unconventionality.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an interesting night with Saul, Alma finds that she's been on Matty's mind. She accepts his invitation to spend an evening with him and his friends, at which point they finally have a proper opportunity to see just what makes each other tick...

I knew that I’d drunk too much, because when I woke in my own bed, it was on the wrong side. Lying spread-eagled on _my_ side of the bed was Saul, his sandy mop of hair splayed across my pillow. Normally I strongarmed him into leaving before falling asleep, claiming an early morning start, but there was no getting around it this time.

Slipping out from under the covers, I padded quietly towards my bedroom door, lifting my dressing gown off the hook and wrapping it around my body. He seemed to be a sound sleeper, but my kettle wasn’t much quieter than my coffee machine, and really, it was the least I could ask to have ten peaceful minutes to myself first thing with a hot mug of something caffeinated.

Saul was that useful combination of reasonably intelligent conversation, complete social ease and impressive in bed. This had been my fourth time seeing him, third time sleeping with him, and I suspected, maybe the last. That was unless he really could operate on a no-strings basis, unlike the last two. Contrary to stereotypes, I found men were less confident in such arrangements than women. Women didn’t view the assertion of my desires as confusing or intimidating, perhaps recognising the relief in being able to do so.

To my horror, just as I settled on the sofa with my coffee, a muffled ringing noise came from my bedroom, the soft chimes of my own phone. Fumbling with the mug and almost burning my hand in the process, I pushed it awkwardly onto the table in front of me and padded down the hallway again. It was no use trying to be quiet any more though; Saul peered at me, bleary-eyed, as I swiped the phone from my dressing table and swiftly left the room again. _Matty._ I swore under my breath. How early did this man get up?

‘Hey.’

‘Hi, Alma - it's Matty.’

‘I know. I saved your number.’

‘Oh, good. I just thought I’d call to, um… well, we’ve just finished shooting a video, and some mates of mine are hanging out at my house. One of them says he knows you.’

‘And you’re inviting me?’

‘Yeah! Yeah, I am. Do you want to come?’

I smiled broadly to myself, quite glad he couldn’t see my expression. ‘Sure. Is it fancy?’

‘God, no. I’ll probably order some food in and we’ll get stoned.’

 _Classy._ I tucked my phone under my chin and went to pick up my coffee again, assessing my motivation to go out again that evening. ‘Alright, I’ll come along. Who’s this mutual friend?’

‘Guy called Franz Kline, says he exhibited with you a couple of years ago? He helps our lighting guy now.’

‘Franz! Yes, I remember. Flying high now, then. What time?’

‘Seven-ish is good.’

‘Thanks, I’ll see you later.’

I hung up and huffed loudly, dropping my phone carelessly down the side of the sofa. I sat there for a good five minutes, chewing my lip, contemplating Matty and trying to figure out his agenda. Not that having an agenda was a bad thing; we all had agendas in every waking moment and interaction. There was a decision underpinning most actions, even subconsciously. So when Matty decided to call me and ask me to hang out again - at his home, no less - was he trying to consolidate a friendship? That was my best guess, at least.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake_ , I mouthed silently, tipping my head back and closing my eyes. What did it matter, anyway? I made new friends all the time. Well, new acquaintances. It took some time before I felt I could trust that an acquaintance wasn’t hanging about for clout, or free photos, or because they were trying to date me. The friends I did have were utterly steadfast and reliable - Molly and Frankie in particular. And I’d known Farah and her entourage for so long that there was little chance of ulterior motives cropping up without me finding out.

I kicked Saul out by midday, letting him help himself to a bowl of cereal and a strong coffee. I didn’t like seeing him perched on a chair by my kitchen counter, in his pants, with his ruffled bed-head. I didn’t desire anything remotely domestic with him. He seemed to understand this when he went to leave, and I remained curled up on the sofa with my laptop balanced on my lap. I gave an awkward sort of half-wave as he closed my front door, and breathed a sigh of relief once I felt the reassurance of solitude again.

The gentle patter of rain began to echo off the slanted roof as I went to get dressed. The day would be lazy until I left to go to Matty's; I had little routine between shoots, and worked in small bursts, attending to emails and tweaking my home studio. I traipsed down there once I'd freshened up. The room smelled mildly industrial, a hangover from the last coat of paint, so I carried an oud candle in and lit it, placing it in the middle of the large oak table to the right of the steps.

To the left, and stretching out for a good fifteen feet, was the rest of the space: a crisp backdrop, a worktop running the length of the side wall, rolls of fabric and stacked cases with lighting and camera equipment. The last person I photographed in the room was Molly, a long weekend before Christmas where she dropped by after a Friday night fundraiser, dressed to the nines, and didn’t leave until the Sunday afternoon.

One of the resulting images I had framed and delivered to her as a gift, a quite spectacular shot of Molly sat cross-legged on my studio floor like a petulant child, her dress hanging off one shoulder and a brimming glass of wine set inches in front of her clasped hands. There were still some outtakes from that weekend in my drawers somewhere, even a few tentative self-portraits where we had experimented with my new remote shutter release. Those would remain out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind.

The clock ticked by slowly, as time does when you want it to pass more rapidly for once. By four I could justify getting changed again, pulling a thick, purple jumper and sharply tailored black trousers from my wardrobe, the kind that made me feel distinctly like Katherine Hepburn. I loosened my hair from its long plait, brushing it out in one dark length and dawdled over my makeup, moving to see it in different light, changing my mind a thousand times before I felt comfortably done.

Molly called before I left, for a catch up, and I couldn’t resist filling her in on my evening plans.

‘Have you asked Farah any more about him? She knows him best out of all of us.’

‘No… should I have? I think I’m quite good at reading people. He seems convincingly interesting.’

‘Interesting how? On a scale from Owen to Prince?’

‘Poor Owen, so scathing!’ I snorted. ‘This one’s near the upper end though. Charismatic, charming. He’s kind of campy but not flamboyant.’

‘Are you sure he’s straight?’

‘Might be. Might not be. It doesn’t really matter, I’m not trying to sleep with him.’

Molly made a funny _hmph_ sound from the other end of the line. ‘Well, as far as networking is concerned, he’s not an agent either. What else could you get out of a musician?’

‘Not every friendship is transactional, Moll,’ I sighed. ‘But I do want to photograph him again.’ Saying this out loud quietly thrilled me. I stared down my own reflection as I clipped my necklace behind my neck, wondering at the mild rush of adrenaline that came from envisaging the next opportunity I might have. ‘It’s nothing to do with my career. It’s an artistic thing, you know? Like in uni.’

‘I remember. I _also_ remember how particular you were about your subjects. All those volunteers from UCL…’

‘Only the literature students. I couldn’t bear having wannabe politicos chirping away.’

‘Bet they’re all gathering dust in the civil service now.’

‘And the ones I photographed? Wonder where they are now.’

‘Fuck knows. Unemployed? Married with one point four kids?’

I giggled, bringing my phone back to my ear and clicking off the speaker. ‘I have to make a move now, I think. What do you reckon, half an hour from here to Clapton?’

‘Safe. Have fun, but not too much!’

‘You know me.’ I hung up and ordered an Uber, zipping myself into ankle boots. At the last minute, I swiped a bottle of wine from above the fridge that I’d been saving for the weekend. It wouldn’t do to arrive empty-handed.

***

The car dropped me off outside the address Matty had given me, but from the outside, it all looked suspiciously quiet - a perfectly innocuous suburban street of terraces, with steps up to the porch. It wasn’t until I walked up to the door to knock and listened carefully that I detected a quiet hum of music playing and muffled laughter.

With a sudden loud clattering noise of feet on stairs, the front door swung open to reveal Franz, of all people, his blonde hair slicked back and his violently pink cheeks grinning at me, a beer can in his hand.

‘Holy shit Alma, long time no see!’

‘I know,’ I embraced him. ‘I wondered what you’d been up to all this time. And now look at us both!’

‘How do you know Matty?’

‘I don’t know him that well, we’ve only met twice before - I took his photo, you know how it goes.’

‘I think I do,’ Franz shrugged, drinking deeply from his beer and gesturing with a hand. ‘Come on through, meet my girlfriend.’

My gaze travelled restlessly as I followed him through the hallway, but I couldn’t pause for long enough to satisfy my curiosity about the frames on the walls, the stack of books on top of an antique sideboard. I glimpsed a kitchen, classic wooden cupboards and surfaces dotted with jars and bottles. But all the sociable noise was coming from the living room, and as Franz stepped inside, I saw Matty perched on the arm of the sofa nearest to the door. He might have looked like a sailor boy, with his long sleeved stripes and navy trousers, if it wasn’t for the remnants of eyeliner and chunky silver rings on his finger, markers of a comforting unconventionality. His eyebrows shot up in recognition, his face creasing warmly.

Matty got up to greet me, taking the bottle of wine I held aloft in offering. I was taken aback slightly when he went in to hug me, one arm looping around my shoulder and embracing me through the thick suede of my coat. He smelled of something good, something faintly musky and evocative, and when he spoke it was with a friendly, familiar tone that instilled ease and reassurance.

‘I’m glad you could make it.’

‘Me too,’ I replied, my gaze shifting to the rest of the room and the other four people lounging on his living room furniture. Franz had presumably retaken his seat on the sofa, his arm flung out behind the head of an attractive girl with perfect Anna Karina hair, a dark bob that flicked under her chin. On the chairs opposite were a man with a tall, broad frame belied by a cherubic face, a pile of records on his lap, and an equally tall but ganglier man with a shaved head and large, doleful eyes. Four Tet played glitchily from two speakers spread wide either side of the fireplace.

‘Alma, this is Laura, George, Nic,’ Franz gestured towards each person as they paused their conversations to nod kindly towards me. I almost felt overdressed, until I noticed Laura’s sleek patent shoes and the heavy cat-eyeliner peeking from beneath her fringe. With the focus of the group on me momentarily, I burned with self-consciousness, feeling the familiar, creeping discomfort that came from being a subject of appraisal. 

And then, in a flash, the unease vanished as quickly as it arrived, as Laura shifted along the sofa and, as George crouched in front of the stereo, Matty pinched his chair and dragged it to the other side of the room. ‘Sit by me, Alma,’ Laura leaned back into the crook of Franz’ shoulder, crossing her legs elegantly. ‘Don’t mind these lumpy men.’

I liked her self-possession, and the way she asked me about myself without falling back on photography immediately, though of course it came up, but in the natural flow of the conversation. She knew of me, and some of my work, but asked intelligent questions and answered my own questions about her with an utter lack of self-deprecation or dismissiveness. There was a fine line, I found, between someone who knew their own worth and someone who used it as a defence or a prop. I was still trying to figure out which I was.

Mine wasn’t the only wine bottle going around, and occasionally George would get up to break ice into glasses and grab more mixers, since he and Franz were on vodka. Despite Laura’s generous attention, I still felt strange and silly in the midst of a social group, painfully aware of my quietness and unwillingness to speak to a plural audience. Nic was caught up in some inside joke with George, and Matty began rolling a joint on the table; when Laura got up to find the bathroom, I found myself wanting badly to speak with Matty at last. We had had barely any opportunity to talk at length since I arrived.

‘Your place is lovely,’ I said quietly, leaning over the arm of the sofa and resting my chin on my hands.

‘Really? I reckon it feels far too cluttered sometimes. I don’t think I’m a maximalist any more.’

‘But it’s a good collection of _stuff_. It’s meaningful,’ I reasoned, my eyes darting around the room again, at the art prints and philosophy books, a dried bunch of flower stems languishing tastefully above the mantelpiece. ‘As Frankie would say, good taste for a straight boy,’ I chuckled, then catching myself. ‘Actually, I shouldn’t assume, I guess.’

‘It’s okay, I am… or at least I think I am.’ Matty’s brow furrowed in concentration as he tucked the edges of the brown paper over, licking delicately and sealing the joint. His tongue was very pink and smooth. I wrenched my focus back up to his eyes again. ‘I’m not sure how much it matters these days.’ He lit up, the end glowing orange with life. ‘You?’

‘I’m open-minded…’ I danced around the question, before settling. ‘Bi. Maybe. Probably.’

Matty passed me the joint, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. ‘They say all the best people are.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Me.’

‘Of course,’ I rolled my eyes, but it was playful, and I maintained eye contact with him as I smoked. ‘I’m afraid the only musicians I’ve known previously haven’t given your collective a good name. They’re quite self-absorbed.’

‘Well, self-inspection, self-knowledge, that’s all fine. But not at the expense of being observant and perceptive. I guess that’s what you’re referring to.’

‘Yeah, something like that.’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘I can’t figure you out. But then I don’t know many photographers like you.’

This amused me, the thought that he was trying to get a read on me. ‘What sort of photographers _do_ you know?’

‘Lads jostling in the photo pit at gigs. Would you jostle like them?’

I squared my shoulders, sitting up a little straighter. ‘I like to think I could. And I respect that sort of thing, it’s difficult to get good pictures in an environment like that.’

‘So you always shoot in a studio?’

‘No, not always. I like street photography, candid, everyday life. But I like picking out details other people miss, the quiet beauty in things.’

‘You don’t photograph chaos, then.’

‘Well…’ I thought of the strange parties, me dressed in regulation black and shrinking against condensation soaked walls, watching warehouse dwellers do all manner of decadent things. ‘Underground chaos. Unconventional settings.’

Matty burst out laughing suddenly, tipping his head back and hugging his knee to his chest. ‘Is that a euphemism for orgies or something?’

‘No! God, no. Just ravers,’ I snorted, passing the joint back. He took it between his forefinger and thumb, his hand brushing mine comfortably. ‘Students enjoying their freedom, or anarchist types trying to live off-grid. The approach can be light-hearted, even experimental, but I take the product itself quite seriously.’

‘I like that phrasing. It’s how I approach making music. Everything else, that’s just me taking the piss out of myself. But the product, the art... that’s my leg to stand on. So it has to be very carefully considered, and worthy, and able to withstand critique if it’s going to prop up all the dumb stuff I do and say in public.’

‘Having a filter is overrated. Or too dense a filter, perhaps. Some people are just… shitty people. And their filter is too good for them to reveal their shittiness. On the other hand, a lack of a filter shows that even at your worst, you’re pretty good.’

Matty grimaced. ‘Not many people have seen my worst.’

‘No, well… only the people we love the most have.’

‘That’s true.’ He got to his feet. ‘I think I should pop out, get some more to drink. You want to come?’

‘Sure,’ I replied quickly, switching mentally back to the present. Somehow, in conversation, it was easy to forget everything else around us. He asked questions that forced me to recollect very specific principles I held, truly an exercise in self-knowledge.

I shrugged my coat back on and followed Matty out the door, stepping down from the porch onto the pavement as he turned to close it behind us. ‘It’s quiet around here. I think I expected you to live somewhere more cosmopolitan.’

‘Well, it _is_ still London. And when I got the place, my budget was a lot lower.’ He tossed his keys in his hand nonchalantly. ‘I have plans to find somewhere bigger soon. I mean, there’s not much point spending the money on anything else besides a house, gear and studio costs. What about you, are you very central?’

‘Oh, barely - Cambridge Heath.’

‘Very nice. An easy journey up here too, I guess?’

‘It was.’ I could see my breath pluming in front of my face; the temperature had dropped rapidly over the last few hours. I thrust my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, steeling myself for what I would say next. ‘You should see my studio, Matty. I could photograph you again.’

His stride slowed momentarily, and he looked directly at me. I couldn’t entirely read his expression in the dark. ‘Really? You want to?’

‘I mean, it would be fun. Wouldn’t it?’ I looked to him for confirmation, my heart thumping quite heavily now I ran the risk of rejection. What a ridiculous thought - artistic rejection. Why did I care so much?

‘Yeah, I think it would,’ he replied softly, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’d love to see your studio.’

‘Drop me a message when you know you’re free then, maybe sometime next week.’ I tried hard to sound as flippant as possible, as though I asked every other new acquaintance for a private shoot at my own home. _Like hell I did._ ‘If it’s not too brazen of me,’ I echoed his own words, regaining some ground in assertion.

‘No, it’s… it’s not. But why me?’ He asked cautiously.

I shrugged. ‘The way you move, and... I don’t know. You follow your instinct, creatively, right?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Then consider this the same thing.’ I couldn’t put into succinct words exactly what made him so compelling. I felt that there was something beneath his charm and guile that only I could capture. It was a peculiar challenge to set myself. And in my drunken state, I made that wager. ‘Not everything I do is for my next paycheck. Think of it as a collaboration. Or do you only consider yourself an artist in a purely auditory sense?’

‘Not at all,’ Matty protested. ‘I have complete creative control. I have influence over the band’s visual direction too, all the marketing…’

‘So you get it then,’ I countered. ‘I’m not trying to exploit you, you understand. If anything, I miss just messing around with my camera the way I used to as a student.’

‘I haven’t been a student for a long, long time. But I think I know what you mean.’ Matty pulled a cigarette from somewhere, lighting it in one smooth, reflexive motion. ‘Let’s do it then.’

‘Thanks. You’re a good sport. You’ll get dinner too, you know.’

‘You’re taking me out?’

‘I can if you want, but I’d rather cook. I’m pretty good, actually.’ I winked. An off-licence came into view, the Lebara sign glowing dully in the thickening night-time mist. ‘You like casseroles?’

‘I’m northern, of course I do.’ He drew deeply from his cigarette, seeming to jump and reach for the pack again. ‘Shit, sorry, I forgot to offer you one.’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry - I’m trying to quit anyway.’ This wasn’t entirely true, but I had a reflexive urge to avoid his concern.

‘More self-will than me then. Anyway… I was thinking.’

‘Oh dear,’ I teased.

Matty side-eyed me, ready for a challenge. ‘If you’re going to compare your photography to my music, and I’ve got such fierce opinions about the latter, then you must have some driving principles behind your own art.’

‘Yes, a lot,’ I answered, cryptically at first, but quickly trying to gather my thoughts on the matter. Nobody had asked me outright about this since I was in art school. ‘The first idea to have an impression on me was the “tiny spark of accident” - that’s Walter Benjamin. It’s a pretty old bit of theory, but still rings true to professionals and amateurs alike. Even Barthes thought of the photograph as a magic, not an art. Something about… the image not being a copy, that was too reductive for him - but an emanation of past reality.’ I indicated air quotes with my fingers, to show I wasn’t merely talking shit. ‘You know when you look at a really old photo, from a hundred years ago, say, and its emotive capacity just kind of hits you in the guts?’

‘I know. Like you look at their faces, or their clothes, and you picture them standing right in front of you, bringing their past to your present.’

‘That’s right. It reminds you of death, of your mortality and the brief temporality of your own life.’

‘Death? In every photograph?’

‘Every portrait, in Barthes’ opinion. And from a historical point of view, that’s pretty interesting, but it’s not like I can achieve that level of transcendence whilst I’m still alive. So I think I have to try and capture something that speaks of a person’s essence in my photography, their own personal magic.’

‘You _have_ to?’

‘Well, I want to. It’s my own motive. Nobody charged me with it except myself.’

‘I like that,’ Matty nodded vigorously. ‘There’s so many people content with just getting good enough at something to pay the bills. That works well in plenty of areas, but in _art_ … you can’t stultify it with that sort of complacency. That’s where mediocrity creeps in, because of a lack of creatively motivated ambition. It drives me fucking crazy sometimes.’

‘You know, I still haven’t heard your music. I’m beginning to think I should.’

‘Oh, you have.’ He threw his cigarette butt to the ground. ‘You just didn’t know it was me.’ And with this startling bit of arrogance, he ducked inside the shop. I followed suit, perusing the rows of chilled soft drinks and limp sandwiches. I went straight to the till, addressing the man watching a film in Hindi on the little TV in the corner.

‘Can I get the litre bottle of Grey Goose?’

‘Hey, big spender,’ Matty muttered in my ear, clutching a couple of six packs of beer. I turned to grin at him, enjoying the easy rapport between us. In the harsh light of the corner shop, his under-eye circles were pronounced, and I was sure I must be exhibiting physical signs of my latent hangover. And yet he was still gorgeous. It seemed quite unfair for someone to maintain such appeal.

On the walk back to the house we talked about films. His taste was as broad as mine, and he’d seen a few classics that I hadn’t, but I trumped him on newer releases. ‘I go to the Picturehouse every other weekend, if I can. The one in Bloomsbury is the best.’

‘I haven’t had the time for that in years, what with touring,’ Matty said wistfully. ‘Shouldn’t complain, though. The only reason I’m off at the moment is that we’ve just finished an album and I’m climbing onboard the promotional circus.’

‘Ah. So the Dazed shoot…?’

‘One of many stops.’

‘I’d better make the most of the time I’ve got you for, then.’

‘You should.’ He threw a mischievous glance over his shoulder as he climbed up the steps to the porch ahead of me, fumbling with his keys to unlock the door.

As I stepped inside, I shivered involuntarily at the temperature change. But it also might have been the result of my imagination conjuring its own little film, of Matty in my home, making himself comfortable in my studio, blazing with the energy that begged to be captured. Yes, maybe it was that fantastic vision.

***

Wednesday, the following week. The doorbell rang out, invading the quiet calm of my house, and I couldn’t help sneaking a glance at my reflection in the hall mirror, tucking my hair behind an ear, fixing a serene expression on my face. My front door - original, seventies, in keeping with the build of the place, with three tall oblongs of rippled glass set into the aged pine wood - through which I could make out a dark silhouette, glancing around the entrance. I lifted the latch and pulled it back, and he cocked his head to one side before speaking, his face illuminated with that smile.

‘Hey, Alma. I’m ready for a little death.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little break between now and the next update, I'm afraid - got a big essay deadline looming and I've come to a bit of a roadblock in my plot. Give me two weeks and it should be back on track! 🥰  
> ALSO thanks for all the love & kind comments on the chapters so far, I can't tell you how much it means to me.


	4. la petite mort.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Matty and Alma grow increasingly comfortable around each other, the privacy of her home studio provides ample opportunity for experimentation, which includes a few sensory delights...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I caved - I need serotonin and I want you to see what comes next. Still a bit of a gap between now and the next chapter, two weeks at most. Big love to those of you who've commented! You're keeping me going! 💫

Nothing like a double entendre to start the afternoon, I thought, my cheeks flushing involuntarily. Little death... _l_ _a petite mort._ Matty was a self-confessed auto-didact, which apparently extended to French euphemisms. I uncorked a bottle of wine and filled a glass for him, which he accepted gracefully.

'Trying to loosen me up?' _Jesus, what a flirt._

'Oh, sure, because you were stiff as a board the first time.'

'I was?' He stalled momentarily, setting the glass down on my kitchen counter with a quiet _clink_.

'No, silly. Although it might be better if you have a prop this time. We'll think of something.'

He wore white jeans and sneakers under his thick winter coat, a diamond patterned shirt peeking from beneath the layers. His hair coiled in every direction, framing his face with a deceptive innocence. I was still trying to work out if being an erudite musician went hand in hand with being a decent person. Not that it mattered much to our collaboration, and I wasn't one to climb up on a high horse in that respect. I considered myself far from saintly; if anything, my own morals could be flexible depending on the context.

'God, your place is fantastic,' he said, staring up towards the slanted roof above the living space. 'You own it?'

'Yeah. I'm a dirty yuppie.'

'Nah, it's earned.'

'How do you know that?'

'I reckon you must be a hard worker.'

'Well, I've also been very lucky.'

'Cheers to that,' Matty knocked his glass against mine gently, taking a deep swig of the wine. 'This is good stuff too.'

'Star treatment at Chez Alma, you know.'

'I do now. Where's the famous studio?'

I endeavoured to hide the smile on my face as he followed me down the steps; once we got going, the back-and-forth was almost like talking to myself, we bounced off each other that well. I flicked on the main light in the room and stood back with my arms crossed as Matty wandered in, blinking in the cool light reflecting off the pristine walls.

'This is _enormous._ Wish I had a home studio this big.'

'I think the previous owners used it as a garage,' I pointed towards the double doors at the end. 'You can exit straight out to the road from there. I want to make it a bit cosier though, maybe put another armchair in and use some of this wall space.'

'It's lovely, really.' He dithered near the sofa, shrugging his coat off and dropping it over the back.

'We don't need to rush. Let's go back up, I'll just grab this...' I pulled a case towards me and lifted a small Leica out.

Back upstairs, he wandered towards the long sliding door, tentatively pulling the handle back. It was pattering with rain outside, the patio slabs darkened with small puddles. 'You want some?' He held up a joint. 'I probably smoke too much, and I know you said you were trying to quit, but...'

'Yeah, sure.' I pulled a lighter from a drawer and held it out to him, watching him spark up and stick his head out the door just enough to exhale outside. 'Don't worry about that - look.' I lifted the Velux window in the slanted roof, letting the air at the top of the kitchen filter out. Matty gave a low whistle and let the back door slide closed again.

'I feel quite embarrassed at the thought you've seen my place now. It just doesn't compare. You might have to come house shopping with me.'

'Just because I have nice windows doesn't mean I'm the expert.'

'On the contrary - good light is everything. I can't imagine a photographer living in a poorly designed home.'

He turned to gaze out across the patio again, and I quietly lifted the Leica in my hands and took two shots. One: his profile silhouetted against the fading daylight, a tendril of smoke curling upwards in front of his face. Two: when he reacted to the shutter sound, turning his head abruptly to see what I was doing, eyes wide in curiosity. 'Don't mind me,' I said. 'There's no ceremony in it, see? No need to pose half the time.'

'If you say so.' His uncertainty lasted all of five seconds. I knew I had the skill to bring shy people out of their shells, but was intensely relieved not to have to do the same with Matty. He handed the joint out towards me.

'Thanks,' I reached out and took it from him, enjoying the ease with which our hands brushed together. 'I should probably be careful with this and the wine together. Especially if I serve up the food in a bit. Italian chicken and rice sound alright?'

'It sounds _amazing_. A couple of my mates can cook well, I think, but we can never be bothered these days. Do you always make the effort?'

I shrugged. 'I'm good at it so the end result is worth it. Bodily pleasures, you know?'

'Mm hmm.' Matty nodded at me, his eyes narrowed slightly. He was either evaluating my words, as I'd intended, or already baked. 'Seeing your place makes you make sense to me a bit more. Is that weird to say?'

'Probably, but I'd say the same of you.'

'Oh yeah? What did you learn about me?'

'Um... you're insatiable for knowledge. You like surrounding yourself with beautiful things. How am I doing?'

'Nicely so far, although those are pretty flattering. Make me sound balanced.'

'Self-conscious?'

'Better. That's more honest.'

'Okay...' I wasn't sure what I could get away with. I wasn't entirely serious, but equally the last thing I wanted was to offend him. 'Dreamy... and self-important but, I think, with good reason?'

'I'll take it. My ego gets punctured on the daily, as it should,' Matty laughed drily.

'Well, today it'll be flattered and humbled in equal measure. A photo can do that, I think.'

'If you're the one taking it, yes.'

'Alright, now who's the flatterer?' I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of my wine. 'I'd use the garden if it wasn't such grim weather. Might have been a nice backdrop.'

'But today it's just the plain white, yeah?' He was referencing the blank canvas of my studio.

'It'll have to be. And it'll suit you, anyway.' My gaze travelled down to his lower arms, observing the smattering of tattoos. I took his wrist gently in my hand and lifted it. 'Do you have a lot of these?'

'Tonnes.' Matty pushed back the sleeves on his upper arms, pointing to different ones. 'There, there... there, and there... here,' - he undid the top button of his shirt, revealing the one on his sternum - 'and here. Plus a bunch on my legs that I got without a second's thought when I was younger.' He lifted the hem of the shirt and yanked the waistband of his jeans down slightly to give a clearer impression of the last visible one. It felt almost indecent to stare so deliberately, even though he was inviting me to; my eyes noted the taut planes of his abdomen, his skin creamy and smooth around the indelible ink. 'Do you have any?'

'A couple,' I nodded, rolling my own sleeve back. 'They're very plain in comparison though.' I had the faded outline of a diamond on my forearm, and a line from a poem in my own handwriting across my collarbone.

'"A sweet and strange unquiet". What's that?' Matty peered curiously where I stretched back the neckline of my jumper.

'A line from Dust, by Rupert Brooke. A good poem. It's not my favourite, but then I don't have a favourite.' I let go of the wool collar, taking a drag of the joint.

'Very sensible. It's quite a definite statement otherwise, and definite statements don't last as long as tattoos do.'

Matty had begun to drift around my kitchen, turning bottles to look at their labels. I watched as he paused at the fruit bowl, his fingers gingerly unfurling a brown paper bag of black cherries from the weekend stall down the road. 'Help yourself,' I commented. He glanced back before popping one into his mouth, and handed me the bag. 'We might as well go down now, give it a little while and then come back up for dinner. Sound good?'

'Yeah, perfect. Fuck, these are good.' He raised his brows and parted his lips to show the stone caught between his teeth.

I smiled, humouring him. 'The bin's over there.' And like that, we walked back down to the studio, me with my camera, wine glass and bottle, and Matty clutching the fruit and his own glass.

***

'Turn a little. To the right. Yours, not mine. That's it.' I squinted in the viewfinder, and back at Matty again. 'Nice. _Really_ nice. Take a small step back from me... now lift your chin.' Though I could tell he was concentrating hard on following my words, through the lens he still looked louche and confident. 'Okay. Now just do what you want.'

He bent over and tried to touch his toes. I laughed, snapping more. 'I might lie down. Can I lie down?'

'It's whatever you want. This is experimental. Is there anything you want to try? Anything you've wondered would be cool?'

'Shit, I don't know. I wish I'd worn something different now.' He straightened up and sighed, one hand on his hip.

'I can always find some stuff upstairs. This feels kind of like Dazed, still... a bit stiff. You can be silly, or camp, or cross. I know publicity can be limiting, so remember, this isn't necessarily going to be seen by anyone except me.'

'You're right. And I do forget.' Matty chewed his lip in thought, leaning back on his elbows. _Snap_. He leaned back all the way, his hair splaying out on the floor.

I leaned over him and then, with a second thought, carefully stepped over his torso so that my feet were placed either side of his hips. It was still difficult for me to lean over and get a centred shot without losing my balance and pitching forward, falling on top of him; I shuffled forward a little and hesitated. 'Do you mind?'

'Nope,' he answered lightly. I thought I detected a hint of mischief in his little half-smile. He looked so utterly relaxed, and yet his eyes fixed upon the camera with determined assurance, his lips pink as ever and parted suggestively. Was it my imagination? No, I was the one standing astride him after all. The energy was playful, and he seemed to want to project that flirtation in the image, sending silent messages to an as-yet-non-existent viewer. And I was not the viewer, but the intermediary, my camera the vehicle for this visual language.

I lifted my foot and stepped away for a moment, letting my camera drop around my neck. I retrieved the bag of cherries from the sideboard where Matty had left them, and brought them over to him, extracting one for myself in the process. 'Eat one. But for god's sake, don't choke on the stone whilst you're horizontal, I don't want to be responsible for that.'

'This house would make a very chic crime scene, you have to admit.' He wiggled his brows, sitting up slightly and taking another cherry.

'Oh stop, just the thought...' I tailed off and lifted my camera as he held the fruit behind his teeth and plucked the stem away, discarding it somewhere to the side. Checking the preview before it timed out, I could see I'd captured the rich, purple sheen that gave away what he was eating, the skin of the cherry before it disappeared. His expression was positively lascivious, and I wanted to laugh, but found that I couldn't. I was faintly thrilled instead.

I held my hand out. It took him a second before he understood, and dropped the stone into my palm. I spat out my own and scattered them away. 'Have you seen _Blow-Up_?' I asked offhandedly.

'Yeah,' Matty dropped his head again, taking two more cherries and rolling them between his fingers. 'Does this make you David Bailey?'

I took one of the fruits from him and bit into it delicately, catching the juice with the back of my hand. 'Yes,' I muttered, dropping to my knees and straddling his abdomen, taking shot after shot as he copied me. He stretched his arms out, like the film's classic pose, before yawning and rubbing his eyes, and then bringing one hand gently to my leg, somewhere between my knee and my thigh.

I froze, breathing shallowly, but continued to shoot as he pressed lightly with his fingertips, the pressure making my blood run hot underneath the wool trousers. When he bit into the next cherry, the juice ran out of the corner of his mouth, and he let it, grinning vampirically. My actions felt automatic now, with no thought afforded to them beforehand, and nothing in my subconscious stopped me when I lowered one hand to touch his face. It made him smile even wider, god damn him, his eyes glinting deviously, and he pursed his lips when my fingers reached his mouth. I felt like a curious child, wondering if the pretty thing would feel as good as it looked, and it did - he did, welcoming an act that would have felt transgressive if it wasn't for the sheer experimentation of the moment.

 _Concentrate. This could look so good._ I spoke to my own internal monologue, ignoring the real-life implications of what we were doing. Matty was pinned to the floor with a lazy, shit-eating grin and my hand on his face. It was hot, but also unlike any image I'd taken before, and I frowned when I realised he was clocking me, not the camera. 'Eyes on the lens, Matty.'

He dropped his gaze to my camera again, sticking his tongue out slightly to touch my thumb, and I couldn't quite believe the image I was presented with; I was forced to reckon with my own drive for taking his photograph, the quality that I kept telling myself I had to capture. It seemed perfectly logical to push at extremes to find that quality. I wiped the juice from his cheek before it became sticky, and was faintly aware of the light tracing movements he made against the side of my leg as he sucked my thumb into his mouth wantonly.

'Oh, my god...' Matty laughed suddenly, releasing my thumb and coughing a little from his restricted breathing. Realising how tightly I'd been gripping his sides with my knees, I sat back a little, reached for my glass and drained it.

'Are you alright? Do you want to take a break?'

'Not particularly. I mean, I'll have more wine, but let's keep going.' He licked his lips and pushed a particularly disobedient curl back behind his ear. I got up to grab the bottle, and pretended not to notice when he surreptitiously adjusted his jeans - he had gotten hard. It wasn't unusual; plenty of guys I photographed found that it occurred at less than convenient times, for any number of factors. I felt personally relieved that my own arousal was undetectable - because yes, I was aroused.

We were figuratively but blatantly circling one another, and I was finding it harder and harder to justify holding back. This was not another stepping stone in my career, or a commission. We had both agreed that this was an artistic exercise, nothing more. If he wanted, these pictures wouldn't have to see the light of day. As if reading my mind, he referenced this understanding in his next breath.

'I'm really into the thought that I'm only doing this for myself, for once. Well, for you too. But nobody else really has to see these pictures, do they?'

'Not if you don't want, no.'

'You won't be disappointed at not being able to display them?'

I considered my response for a few moments as I refilled our glasses. 'It's okay, Matty. Really. Unless you turn to me and say, _oh Alma, that's sick, let's send it on somewhere_... well, it's for our eyes only otherwise.'

'Interesting,' he said quietly, propping his upper body up to drink. 'I'm going to take this off,' he added, unbuttoning the shirt all the way.

'Fine by me.' I stood close by, towering over him quite deliberately. Rather than giving my next instruction directly, I reached down to position his head like a hairdresser might do, encouraging him to keep his chin tilted down. Those eyes, when the sultry stare translated to something sincere and puppyish - they fluttered and looked up at me imploringly, round and dark. 'Oh, aren't you a heartbreaker,' I teased him, adjusting the focus on my lens. 'Do you do this for all the girls?'

Matty fought to keep a straight face as I continued snapping. I observed the way he reclined, my attention wandering to his torso. He was slender without being skinny, hinting at the easy fitness of a performer beneath his pale skin. A small trail of dark hairs fanned out from his navel and ran beneath his waistline, and I couldn't help appreciating the overall effect; he was perfectly proportionate, the perennial dream of a boy possessing both beauty and character.

He reached to the top button of his jeans, flipping it open. 'This makes it sexier, right?'

'Uh huh.' I crouched down to his level again. He took another gulp of his wine and passed it to me, and although I still had my own glass, I drank deeply. As I placed it carefully back on the floor, he pushed an exploratory hand beneath his jeans. I paused, disconcerted for a moment. 'You want this to be in shot?' My voice sounded level and controlled, belying the frantic coursing of adrenaline and alcohol in my veins.

'Might as well,' Matty breathed, shifting his hips upwards to make room as he adjusted himself. The silver chain around his neck glinted delicately under the lights; I knew the pearly sheen of his skin would show up wonderfully on camera. His face slackened in pleasure as his hand moved - it turned me on too, though I tried to keep breathing through my nose, my lower lip caught between my teeth as I withheld any outward display of awe.

I had photographed a few people nude in the past: open-minded models, some fellow students, and Molly of course. But nothing bordering on erotic. I would have been lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind, a few ideas for how that might play out in my creative vision. What sort of result would I want? How would I go about finding someone willing to participate that wasn't just an escort? Saul would have run a mile at the suggestion, vain as he was. I didn't give Matty any extra instructions. I just let him be.

His expression suddenly became hesitant, and he removed his hand. 'I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?'

'God, no,' I shook my head quickly. 'There's no need to be bashful. Just let me know when you want to switch things up.'

'Actually... pass me those cherries again.'

I leaned over his chest to grab the bag and tossed it towards him, grinning. 'You're a fiend for them.'

'Well, they're fucking delicious, I can't help it.' He dangled one into his mouth by its stem, touching it with his tongue. 'What do you think? Too obvious?'

'No, I like it. There's something hot about certain food. Fruit, syrup, wine...'

'A bit Dionysian.'

'Exactly.' I took one of the berries, holding it over him and crushing it between two fingers until the skin split. Purple drops fell from my hand onto Matty's chest, rising and falling with his breath. 'Kind of decadent.'

I lifted the camera again, and snapped a series of shots as Matty took the squished cherry from me, smearing the juice over his nipple and bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean like a cat. It was no use - I had to touch him again. Shuffling closer and balancing on one knee in between his legs, I extended my free hand and copied him, catching a droplet from his skin and bringing it to my mouth to taste. 'It's going to get on your jeans,' I said carefully.

'Can't have that, can we?' And he pushed them over his narrow hips, kicking the white denim away. I shot him a look, the sort that said _you're cheeky and I'm enjoying it._ His cock strained at his black boxers, the short cotton kind that clung to him flatteringly. He snapped the elastic provocatively, which made me laugh out loud.

'You're such a twat - what is this, burlesque?'

'I dunno. A striptease?'

'Alright, Dita.' I pulled my own jumper over my head, adjusted the strap of my camisole and added 'I'm just hot, not participating.'

Matty sat up quickly, snatching up my camera once I'd put it aside for a few seconds. His fingers quickly ran over the controls in search of the shutter, and he held it up to his eye, the glassy lens turned on me suddenly. 'I can see the appeal of this, you know... the way it translates your perspective for others.'

My throat constricted with discomfort. 'Matty...' I said quietly, trying to sound more sober than I was. 'Please don't.'

He lowered the camera as his mischievous grin dropped away, the dark brows sloping in confusion. 'What?'

'It's not my thing.'

'Being _photographed_?' He sounded incredulous.

'I know how it sounds, my whole career, blah blah. But I'd just rather not.'

'You're beautiful though,' he shot back. 'You'd look amazing, regardless.'

'Oh, Matty -' I repeated, my expression softening at the directness of his compliment. 'It's not about being photogenic or not. I don't like the attention, the limelight, you know. I just hate being centred in any way for my appearance.'

He handed the camera back to me by its strap, crouching opposite me and hugging his knees into his chest. 'Okay. That's fair, I get it. Well, not exactly, I mean look at me now... but I think I do? Fuck,' he winced at himself. 'I'm such a cunt.'

'Shut up, you're not. The majority of people _do_ like having their photo taken. That's a common human instinct, and my career would be nowhere without it, so don't talk shit.'

Still, he was chastened, and reached for his jeans. I got to my feet and gathered up the debris from our afternoon, the cherry stalks and stones and wine glasses. The central heating had definitely ramped up now, in defence against the encroaching night-time chill, and I pushed the length of my hair off the nape of my neck, feeling the dampness there from a light sweat. Disappointment crept up on me, regretful at not being able to continue the fun.

'We didn't have to stop, you know. I'm sorry I was funny about that.'

'Don't apologise,' Matty shook his head, doing up the buttons on the silk diamond-patterned shirt. 'I was being a dickhead, as usual. You're a professional, I shouldn't have messed about.'

I scoffed. 'There's very little professionalism in _this_ , you know that. Besides, you're even more fun than I expected.' I extracted the SD card from the camera and held it aloft. 'I'll take a look at what we got on my Mac. Are you hungry for a proper meal now?' The smell of the casserole in the oven had begun to permeate the flat, deliciously rich tomato and chicken.

'Oh - please!' He looked at me gratefully, leaning against the stair bannister with a careless elegance, and I knew I hadn't put him off - not with the glint of excitement still present in his smile, which still bordered on a knowing smirk.

My regret waned a little. There would be a next time.


	5. smoke and honey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alma immerses herself in her craft again to distract herself and fight against the effects of idleness. But it's inevitable that Matty will come back, and that their experimentation will resume.

Matty was a charming dinner guest, and I felt another twinge of disappointment when he had to leave at last, announcing that he was all sticky and needed to go home and clean up. He managed to balance his facetiousness with an absolute transparency that was endearing in conversation. He poked fun at himself in the same sentence as mocking other entities, and demonstrated an almost crippling self-awareness - all whilst knowing his own, very great worth. No wonder he took to the arts like a duck to water.

Once he was gone, the silence in the house was more noticeable than usual, and I threw on a Warp Records mix whilst I showered, leaving the bathroom door open so the music would filter through the air. I took extra care over removing makeup with a soft flannel, choosing fresh pyjamas; I was in a pensive mood, feeling especially present in my own body and heeding its preferences. As I ran a comb through my hair and opened up my laptop, sprawled atop the bedsheets, I scrolled slowly through the camera roll from earlier in the day, a dozen frames from the kitchen and over a hundred from within the studio.

Matty was the last person to need photoshop, and if anything, it was little details like stubble from a missed spot shaving or the tiny beading of perspiration on his collarbone caused by the powerful lighting that made the images more immediate and arresting. It wouldn't be exaggerating to say it also made his appeal more visceral.

I was acutely aware of the way the silk of my nightdress felt against my skin and the coolness of the air on my upper arms as I scrutinised my own work. Even in two dimensions, he was mesmerising, and in his absence I could more freely reflect upon my desire for him. There was no getting around it, despite what I'd said to Molly about not trying to sleep with him. Well, I might not _try_ , but I might not have to. It might just happen. I decided to leave it up to him, see how he responded next time. After all, he'd been the one with the raging hard-on, and I had almost felt sorry that he wasn't able to get some relief. How nice it might have been to be the one to help...

I was jolted from this idle daydream by the vibration of my phone a few inches away. The glowing screen announced two messages from Saul.

_out in bethnal grn not far from you_

_you home? fancy some fun?_

I winced a little before considering a response, then pondered my own gut reaction. Why would I turn him down? It would be a first. And I was so wound up from the day's shooting that I could do with the release. But, I realised, I had my own idea for how to resolve that, and it didn't involve bringing another man into it. It felt like it might corrupt the vision in my head, if I took leftover desire from working with Matty and transferred that libido onto Saul. In fact, the thought vaguely repelled me, they were so different. _Never the twain shall meet_.

I picked up the phone and tapped out a brief reply.

_too tired! but thanks for thinking of me, hope you're having a good time_

Very cordial. Generous, in fact. I slumped back onto the pillows, sighing listlessly. Nothing else was going to distract me - it was no use. All I could think about was Matty, his voice, his hands, his mouth, that fucking _erection_ he did nothing to hide. It took less than five minutes to make myself come. I was slick from the lingering arousal, and the things my mind conjured up were startlingly vivid.

The phone vibrated again, and I withdrew my hand from my underwear reluctantly, becoming aware of the music still humming away in the room.

_no worries, hmu later this week?_

I chose not to reply. I wasn't about to make any promises I couldn't keep.

***

I suspected I was a better person when I was busy, and had no choice but to work multiple jobs to be able to support my photography. Now that my success allowed me to support myself, the stretches of idleness could be dangerous without routine, which was something I certainly didn't have, and it was easy for bad habits to take root. The more time I spent at a loose end, the more irritable I became, and the less tolerant of others, so when it came to a big shoot after a period of inactivity, it was difficult to stop myself from snapping at poor assistants. I could be prone to an arrogance that was not as charming on me as it was on Matty. From years of self-analysis, I gathered that I was clearly more emotionally closed up, so there was little else revealed to balance an unappealing impression.

And so for the next few days, my mind's eye replaying the shoot on repeat, I tried not to stay inside and mope but instead to get out and see my friends. Farah insisted on dinner somewhere in Soho, which gave me an excuse to make myself presentable and catch her up with recent events. I was also curious about how she came to know Matty and invite him over to one of her evenings in the first place.

'Julia was casting for one of their videos, her and Diane are as thick as thieves,' Farah divulged over a basket of warm, fresh bread in a newly opened pasta place. 'So there I was, running around after these model types and watching four lads flail around in a hot tub, finding the whole thing extremely entertaining, and he's running his mouth, of course, so we strike up a conversation because the last thing I want is for Julia to get salty about it. The whole shoot ended up being _such_ a laugh. You don't easily forget a job like that, I'm telling you.'

'I bet,' I murmured, perusing the cocktail list. 'What are the others like?'

'Very sweet. They all are, all quite alike in that sense, very grounded. No sense of entitlement, just very happy to be there. Though Matty loves an audience, you'll have grasped that by now. What did you two talk about?'

'It's funny, actually - you remember all that stuff Fez Dunning used to go on about when we were in first year, the theoretical texts?'

'Yeah, it drove me crazy that half the class didn't bother reading them. I mean, I know it was an arts degree, but how lazy can you be...'

'Exactly, and that's why you and I got chatting anyway, because we were actually interested in that stuff.'

'Yes! I remember. God, I miss just having no obligations other than _learning_...'

'I know, right? So anyway, Matty asks me a lot of questions about why I do what I do, and it makes me remember a lot of that, and reconsider the reasoning behind it all. You know, he said that he loved feeling able to talk about that stuff openly at yours. I think he really relishes it.'

'What stuff? Us bitching about the industry?'

'Well, yes, but we're all very honest about it all, aren't we? Acknowledging the inherent hypocrisy of everything, pulling apart the validity of it all. I've said often enough that I'm fed up with people inflating the importance of what they do...'

'People like Julia,' Farah snorted.

'Yes, and basically anyone who thinks they're god's gift to culture once they've finished their graduate show. I think I've missed a trick, not hanging out with musicians more. They don't take themselves as seriously, they understand what it is to mess about with your tools with some level of uncertainty. There's a sort of humility in that.'

'He _has_ made an impression on you, hasn't he?' She grinned at me, snatching the menu out of my hands. 'Will you let me order?'

'Sure...' I waved a hand. 'I mean, it would be hard not to after the shoot.'

'Hang on, which one? I'm losing count. How many times have you taken his picture already?'

'Including your party, three times. But I'm referring to this week.'

'And? What was that like? Not awkward, I hope.'

'Definitely not - can you imagine the guy being awkward? He's smooth as fuck. It was good, it was...' I hesitated, reluctant to reveal the more surprising details. 'Well, yeah, good fun. There's something about him, Farah. He photographs so _well_ , and he's open-minded too, he understands the incentive of it.'

'Sounds a bit like an artist-muse situation.'

'Really?' I wondered aloud. 'I can't say I've experienced that before.'

'There's a first time for everything. Did you guys fuck?'

'God, no. You know my rules.'

'But that _wasn't_ a commission, Alma. Would you?'

'I don't see it like that, no,' I said calmly, fully aware that I was lying. I liked Farah a lot but I wasn't completely sure she wouldn't let something slip to the wrong person. And besides, it felt like to admit to it out loud was bad karma or something.

When the food arrived, it was the best I'd had in months, completely living up to the impeccable write-ups. In the end, that was the best distraction, something that tantalised the senses. After dinner we walked up Tottenham Court Road towards Euston, and I couldn't help taking a few shots on the little Kodak I'd thrown in my bag, for just-in-case moments. Farah was wearing long, dangly earrings and had her thick wavy hair twisted up into a bun to keep it out of the way; in her pale trench coat and enormous woolly scarf, she made for an endearing model underneath the soft glow of the street lamps.

***

The next day I got up as early as I could stand, and set off walking down through Whitechapel, in search of markets that lined the streets with bowls of fruit and vegetables, open cases of fish and household shops selling everything from toilet plungers to picture frames and shoe polish. In Shadwell Basin, smokers gathered by the benches that kids would leave their clothes on in the summer before diving into the water; now, a solitary swan floated over the brown depths, dabbing delicately at the surface where an elderly man had thrown in pieces of cheap bread roll.

I still found it immensely satisfying to shoot on film and manually yank back the lever with my thumb that rolled the next frame in front of the shutter. Nobody took any notice of me. I got through three rolls of black and white film before walking back the way I'd come, and by the time I reached Phil's house, it was beginning to get dark. Neither he nor Jan were home, so I poked the canisters through the letter box along with a scrap of paper:

_Hi Phil, these are from Alma! Will drop by on Tuesday to pick them up and pay you._

Exhausted from the day's wandering, I flagged down a cab to get home, and ran a bath to soothe my aching muscles. I spent the remainder of the evening working on the digitals from Matty's shoot, doing the final tweaks I said I would - finishing the exposure fixes and adding a light grain.

I compiled the best thirty shots, copied them into an encrypted folder and emailed Matty the link, with the password in a text. Then I sat back and twiddled my thumbs, a buried anxiety threatening to rise to the top and unseat the serenity I'd cultivated during the day. He called me eventually, just as I was drifting off to sleep, and I snatched my phone up blearily, clearing my throat beforehand so I wouldn't give away my state.

'Hey. I'm guessing you've seen the email?' I asked, sitting bolt upright and swinging my legs out of bed as quietly as I could. It was always easier to sound natural on a call if I paced.

'Yeah, and all those photos. And I mean, fuck, Alma. I don't know what I envisioned when we were actually shooting but the result is incredible. Is that vain of me?'

'No, not at all. You're happy with them then?'

'Every single one. Not that... well, I wouldn't put some of them in our press pack, you know?'

'I thought you had a few fans that would die for a glimpse of your crotch.'

I could almost hear his grimace through the phone. 'Huh, yeah... I'm not about to fulfil that particular fantasy. But, shit,' - the air of wonder returned - 'it's powerful stuff. That's on you. Thank you.'

'Just doing my job,' I said, fiddling with a loose thread on my nightdress.

'Yeah, and everything else. There's not many people I'd trust with this, you know. There's not many people I can _collaborate_ with.'

'So is it a one-off then?'

'I certainly hope not.' Matty paused, and my heartbeat picked up a few paces. 'Up for it again?'

'What else did you have in mind?'

'I don't know. We could shoot somewhere else. In your flat?'

'You're happy to improvise again?' My voice was slightly hushed, my tired mind working overtime to interpret what he was imagining.

'Yeah. I am. See if we can take things to a similar place.' That was uncharacteristically vague of him. Enough to be a euphemism.

'Alright then. Wednesday?'

'Wednesday. And it'll be my turn to get dinner.'

We said goodbye quickly, easily, but I sat with my phone in my hand for a few minutes, staring into the middle distance and smiling stupidly at the exchange. I wondered if I was _being_ stupid. Past experience told me it could be more trouble than it was worth, to humour him like this. But then, wasn't he humouring me? Weren't we equals in that respect?

I resolved not to worry until faced with the prospect. Until Wednesday, then.

***

Slightly later in the day than last time - dusk already drawing in, the rumble of rush hour traffic increasing outside the window - he rang the doorbell, and I was a little self-conscious of the care I'd taken over my appearance beforehand. I always dressed smartly but in dark, rich colours excepting the occasional white - plus soft tailoring and expensive textures, so that I still never looked overdressed.

It felt like a re-enactment at first; the way I opened up the door to Matty and smiled in greeting, him stepping over the threshold and yanking his scarf away from his neck, pushing the windswept curls back from his brow and trying unsuccessfully to tuck them behind an ear. Today he sported a thick sheepskin jacket with a hoodie underneath, bundled up against the unrelenting London winter.

'I kind of assumed you'd want the same as last time,' I said lightly, pulling two wine glasses from the kitchen cupboard as he leaned over the marble countertop. 'I hope you don't mind.'

'Never.' He twirled the stem of the glass between his thumb and forefinger before lifting it to drink. 'How have you been?'

'It's been quiet, actually. Quieter than I'd like. Makes me really fucking restless, like I don't know what to do with myself.'

' _Tell_ me about it, it's a nightmare being off tour. How do you deal with it? What did you do?'

I shrugged. 'Just went on a really long walk with my camera. There's always a new way of looking at familiar places, and you can never know every single corner of this city anyway. You?'

Matty grimaced, looking sheepish for the first time. 'It does a number on my mental health, really. Gets me into bad habits.'

'I see.' I didn't press him further, but edged around the counter so that I could face him properly. 'Well... I'm too lazy for my own good. I'm rubbish at planning ahead.'

'I know, it's horrible not being able to predict your own motivation.' He reached up to my Velux window, copying the way I'd opened it last time. 'How do you feel now?'

'It comes in waves. Peaks and troughs.'

'So is this a peak or a trough?'

'A peak.' It was silly, but it made me smile widely, and Matty's face creased as he lit up a joint, almost as if he was winking at me. 'And you?'

'Yeah. A peak.' He exhaled upwards, and I noticed he was clean shaven, more so than last time. His skin looked soft and almost translucent in its smoothness. 'I'm going to be nosy again. Do you mind?'

I shook my head, and watched him run a finger over the spines of the books stacked against the other wall, pausing to read the tiny text detailing the issue of each tome-like fashion magazine.

'Is your work in any of these?'

'A few,' I nodded. 'Some are from my uni days. But the ones from the last two years... well, I only buy issues with my work in.'

'Oh, _hang_ on...' Matty crouched down, struggling to extract one of them. It was a copy of iD from a year ago. 'No way. Look!'

He flipped open the glossy pages, brushing past editorials and think-pieces until he hit upon what he was searching for. And there he was, in a gaudy suit and smudged eye make-up, side-eyeing the viewer laconically. I laughed, an unbridled peal loud enough to make me self-conscious. 'Oh _wow_. Who took that? I can't believe it was on my shelf this whole time.'

'Some boring guy... Zach something? He was a perfectionist, I remember. Where's your piece in this?'

'I did this shoot - here.' I flicked back a few pages, locating the glassy-eyed model showcasing brightly coloured faux furs in a Grade II listed Georgian pile. 'It was very Blur, Country House. I half expected Damien Hirst to rock up any minute.'

'No dead sheep, I hope.'

'I _did_ have to work with some pretty terrifying taxidermy once, when I was starting out - just assisting someone else. There's nothing creepier than a badly stuffed Dalmatian.'

Matty's attention flickered around my kitchen again, and he peered into the larder as he spoke, absent-mindedly turning pots and jars around to see their labels. 'I'd fucking freak if I got to a shoot and someone brought something like that out! I want to get a dog soon, anyway.'

'They're good for your mental health,' I replied sagely, smoking the end of his joint. He turned back to me with a mischievous look on his face, in the middle of squeezing a dollop of honey onto his finger. He sucked it into his mouth and crossed his eyes facetiously.

'Lovely. I prefer golden syrup, but this is some fancy shmancy stuff.'

My stomach constricted at seeing him mess about, playful in his curiosity. It was the tension of uncertainty - the fact that I still had no idea what would happen in the next minute, or hour, or day. I knew what I hoped, but hopes weren't to be trusted. 'I think it's acacia. Probably six quid from Wholefoods.'

I wandered over to the speakers that sat behind my sofa, attaching my phone and making a selection.

'I realised I don't really know what your niche is,' I admitted, turning and flopping back into the cushions.

'I don't have one. I'm a bit of a magpie in that sense. But this is...' He frowned, cocking his head to one side like a spaniel. 'J Dilla?'

'King of sampling, yes.'

Matty stepped towards me until he hovered directly above me, holding the container of honey out and wearing an expression I couldn't decipher. I swallowed, sitting forward and sending implicit messages with my own face - _what is this? What are you messing about with now? Why are you so determined to surprise me?_

'Open up.'

The words were a pure white bolt of electricity down my spine. This was hardly a silly game any more; yes, he was playing with me, in the way that I had played with him the week before. He nodded in encouragement. Despite the dark, slightly wicked look in his eyes, I could still see the constant small checks - I recognised them because I made them too, whenever I asked a subject to do something vulnerable. I had performed those checks when I thrust the cherries upon him last time, satisfied at the glint of excitement I detected, the eagerness to be daring.

I tipped my head back, trying to judge where the syrup would fall. Sticky sweetness hit my tongue lightly, and the honey made a clattering sound on the floor as Matty tossed it aside. His hands cupped my face, and he leaned down - and kissed me, his broad tongue slipping hotly against mine, the slightly smoky taste of him mingling with the cloying taste of honey, and he knew how much I would enjoy this - all the fucking _bodily pleasures_ , all my sensory predilections and those decadent hints I made. It was surprising, and yet not, all at once.

I inhaled harshly through my nose, pushing back slightly and feeling how well our lips aligned, reaching blindly up towards his forearms, desperate to touch him in return. He made a noise - something animalistic, I wasn't entirely sure, but it prompted my jaw to drop again, letting his tongue lick into my mouth.

He drew back abruptly, slightly breathless, a wild look in his eyes. He licked his flushed lips. 'Everything tastes good with you.'


	6. forbidden fruit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, there is no excuse to hold back. But the implications for Matty and Alma’s friendship will be far-reaching...

'Is this too much? Are you into-'

'Oh, I'm into it,' I cut Matty off, eagerly tugging at his hoodie to bring him even closer. 'Don't worry.'

We kissed lazily until my whole body was weak; even as his hands gripped my waist, I willed them to travel and cover every inch of me. But he knew the power of patience better, pulling the hoodie off over his head and diving back to kiss down my neck, sucking lightly at the skin behind my ear.

'Sit... sit down,' I nudged him aside, and he dropped onto the sofa, a hand still hooked around my waist. I moved into his lap, pushing his hair back and brushing my lips against his, intoxicated by the whole scenario.

If I was making out with Saul, it was just part of his purpose for me, in my mind. I couldn't have told you what music he listened to, what interested him or how he actually spent most of his days. It felt safer by now to undress someone, touch them, have them touch me and summon an orgasm, if there was no investment in the person themselves. So when Matty and I clutched at one another, honest in our desires and excitedly pushing the dynamic of our friendship into another realm, it felt transgressive in a whole other way. Enjoying him physically was like eating some kind of forbidden fruit.

I sat deeper into his lap, feeling the friction from the bulge in his jeans. 'Was it me last time as well?'

'Of course,' he grinned. 'What did you think it was?'

'I don't know... the titillation of being looked at? Performing, in another way?'

'That's a bit voyeuristic, isn't it?' His hands squeezed my arse, pulling me against him. 'But no. You were _sitting_ on me, Alma. Like now.'

'Do you like it? Being told what to do?'

'I like all sorts. Switching things around. I'm open-minded.'

I was fascinated by the thought of ceding power. Usually I bossed men around, but Matty was too clever for that. 'What do you want right now?'

'I want to see you.' His hands fumbled with the buttons of my blouse. 'I could look at you all day.'

'I hope that's not all you're going to do,' I quipped, helping him along and shrugging the silk material off my shoulders. His fingers traced the edge of my bra; I always did wear nice underwear. I watched him press open-mouthed kisses to my chest, and buried my nose in his hair, tangling my own fingers in the ringlets at the nape of his neck. The elastic around my ribcage lifted, exposing my breasts to the cool air, until a warm tongue flickered at one nipple and the stimulation began to make my head spin. 'Matty,' I gasped, tightening my grip in his hair momentarily. He drew his head back and stared up at me, wearing an almost drunken expression of lust, his lips parted obscenely.

'Huh?' He watched me pull back slightly, unclasping my bra and shuffling off him, sinking onto my heels. ' _Oh_. Oh, shit.'

I unbuttoned his fly deftly and laid a hand over his cock where it pushed against the taut material of his underwear, wrapping my fingers around it tightly, taking pleasure in sizing him up. It should have felt silly when I stole a glance back at him in anticipation, but he looked at me so beseechingly that all I could do was take pity on him and tug the material back, catching his erection in my mouth. Rolling my saliva onto the tip of my tongue, I laid it flat against the head before dipping down to take him all, and as he convulsed reflexively, I felt the flush of satisfaction. His fingertips caressed the back of head, but never applied pressure, despite his arousal. After a few moments I lifted my head slightly, letting my hand fill in for me as I spoke.

'You like that?' I breathed, nuzzling my cheek against the palm of his hand.

'Yes. Fuck, yes.' Matty's eyes darted between my hand's movements and my teasing face, his brow tensed in enjoyment. 'Alma, I-'

He cut himself off with his own gasp as it caught in his throat. Pushing up his shirt, I pressed my palm flat against his abdomen as I determinedly resumed with my mouth, cupping his balls in the other hand. It didn't take too long; when he came, he swore and moaned quietly, pulsing across my tongue. I sat up to clock his expression, and he stared at me, exhilarated.

'I feel like my soul just left my body. But in a good way,' Matty laughed at himself, hoisting his jeans up and twisting to reach for the bottle on the coffee table. 'This is almost done. You want to finish it?'

'Uh huh.' I got to my feet, poured out the dregs and swilled them around the glass. 'Palate cleanser.' His brows shot up as I knocked back the last of the wine, and I leaned in then, at last. 'You taste good though,' I whispered, nose to nose with him. It was like a reversal of the position we found ourselves in to start with, as I hovered above, tipped his head back with a finger beneath his chin, and kissed him again, slowly, deeply, savouring his warm mouth.

But he still had the ability to unseat me. His hand slipped between my legs, seeming to know how my hips would bend towards him as he palmed my crotch, a thumb pressing against my clit through two layers of clothing. I stumbled closer, led by the pressure between my legs. 'Get these off,' he demanded, breaking away to help me. I pushed the trousers off my hips, and he pulled me closer again, pressing a delicate kiss to my lower stomach, lower still, until all I could feel was the warmth of his breath over my crotch; he edged my underwear down and went in again with his tongue.

'Oh, god,' I groaned, swaying unsteadily, my legs weakening. Matty reached behind me to grasp my backside, pinning me against him, and I fell forward until my hands hit the wall behind the sofa, practically sitting on his face as he'd likely intended. It was always gratifying when a man appeared to enjoy going down on me, but I didn't doubt that everything Matty and I were doing was out of sheer pleasure - and he moaned into me right then, bringing two fingers around to slip deep inside me, and I cried out. 'Yes - oh, _fuck_ , yes Matty-'

I shuddered and shook against him, finally crumpling into his lap and cradling his head against me, both of us pink-cheeked from exertion. He ran his thumb over his lips and offered it out for me to suck clean. 'The way you say my name when you come... that's heaven. I can't wait to fuck you.'

'I want you to,' I said breathlessly.

'You need anything?'

I shook my head. 'Got the coil.' _You're not the only one_ , I could have said, but I didn't want to. And really, what would be the point of settling for less than this now? I got to my feet and buttoned my trousers again, reaching for my camera. 'Your colour is up. You look like a fucking Renaissance painting.'

'I look like I've just hooked up with Aphrodite, is what.'

'Don't be glib,' I shook my head, squinting through the viewfinder and pressing the shutter a couple of times.

'I'm not,' he protested. 'Have you seen yourself? You're unbelievable.' He leaned forward again, caressing the backs of my thighs.

'Flattery will get you nowhere.'

'I know,' he said softly, resting his cheek against my stomach. 'But it's worth a shot.'

I set my camera down again and stroked his hair pensively, listening to the sound of our breathing, the sirens outside and the wind pushing against the lever of the window in the slanted roof. If you had asked me there and then what I thought was actually going through his head, I would have come up empty-handed. It was disconcerting, but strangely thrilling too - the predictable nature of other men, the way I could anticipate their expectations and meet them exactly, no more and no less - that which used to be safe now seemed unbearably boring.

I was so young and stupid when I met Joel. After six years, I figured I could at least trust myself not to get stuck in a similar situation again, but it had become too easy to stick to my comfortable routine by then; casual dating, no crossing over of social spheres, discouragement of attachment. My needs were met. Nobody had been convincing enough to become an exception. But Matty was an interesting prospect now, because I wasn't on the back foot the way I had been before. One thing I felt could be sure of was his respect for me. He would never do anything like Joel did.

'Come here.' I kissed Matty again, lingering over his lips. 'You want to go upstairs?'

'Yeah,' he nodded, inhaling sharply. 'I want that.'

He was hard again. I grabbed his hand and led the way, casting off our clothes properly once we reached my room. Matty's body was the gift that kept on giving, shallow as it might have been to think that; slim hips, slender legs, a _really_ good ass. The anticipation burned, and finding me slick from before, he bent me over the end of the bed and parted my legs from behind, slipping his cock between my thighs.

'What do you want?' He asked, his voice thick and low.

'I want you to fuck me, Matty' I murmured, flexing my back up, pressing against his chest. 'Fuck me already.'

It felt like he was everywhere at once as he pushed inside me, and I clenched fistfuls of the bedsheets as his hands cupped me, squeezed me, held me tightly. His hips snapped forwards again and again, fingers finding my clit and massaging the beginnings of orgasm into life. 'Not too quick,' I stuttered, 'you're gonna make me come again.'

'That good?'

'Don't let it go to your head.' I pushed back a little with my hips, and he made a higher sort of gasp, indicating I'd caught him by surprise. His palm slapped the softest part of my arse sharply, and I let him know, quite vocally, that I enjoyed it.

Dropping his hands to the bed frame for purchase, he panted into my neck as he threw himself into each movement, and second by second my muscles ceased to work quite as they should, as I spasmed and cried out between his body and the mattress. I came so hard that the sensation flooded so far up my back it seemed to reach my shoulders and spread a delicious warmth up to my ears. Intuitively, Matty stopped his motions, holding himself within me and letting me recover.

'Get on the bed,' I said shortly, tapping his shoulder. He obliged, and I straddled him, clenching my thighs against his hips. _Now who's doing the fucking_?

'Jesus, Alma,' he laughed breathily, his fingers dancing over my abdomen and up to my chest as I gathered my hair out of the way, flicking it behind my shoulders and riding him with total abandon. I reached behind me, leaning on his thighs to balance, his skin hot to the touch. I knew he was coming when his hands dropped to my hips again, digging into me tightly, and he exhaled noisily, all tension in his face melting.

I sat there a little longer as we caught our breath, staring at each other in satisfaction. He smiled to himself, with what thoughts, I couldn't be sure. But if my own were anything to go by, it was something along the lines of indulgence, or rather hedonistic gratification. I slipped off and rolled beside him on the bed, taking up his hand in mine and stroking a finger absent-mindedly along his forearm.

'What time is it?' he wondered aloud. 'It feels like I've been here for hours.'

'Barely,' I replied, glancing at the clock beside my bed. 'It's only just gone seven.'

He pulled our hands in his direction, inhaling somewhere near my wrist. 'You smell so fucking good.'

'Oh? What do I smell of?'

'I'm not sure... it's like expensive perfume from Liberty's. Those rare ingredients that you don't get in the cheap stuff.'

'Well, I wear expensive perfume from Liberty's.'

'That'll explain it then.' He nuzzled his face into my neck, and his hair tickled me, which made me laugh, still dizzy with dopamine. I threw a leg over his and kissed him again, until some sharp feeling tugged at my gut, and I drew away abruptly.

'I'm gonna jump in the shower. Were you serious about dinner?'

Matty propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze running up and down my body. 'Deadly.'

***

Dinner was a Chinese restaurant in Dalston that Matty had passed on his way to me, with diner-style booths and a yellowing menu, and after we stuffed ourselves with noodles and dim sum, we returned to the flat to (finally) take some more photos. They were relatively demure in comparison to the first batch; he curled up in my velvet armchair and although he was shirtless, it was in a relaxed, childlike state, rather than suggestive.

He shivered a little with the cold, and his shoulders turning inward made him look so much smaller suddenly, still pretty but starkly vulnerable. I joked that we should make him look like he was coming down from a bacchanal, and pulled out my makeup bag, smudging eyeliner around his eyes with a bit of Vaseline, so that his eyes shone even more. This I shot on black and white film, so we would have to wait a little for the results, but it also prevented us from capturing anything too questionable; I didn't want to give Phil a heart attack. Equally, this reminded me that I really should sort out my own darkroom, so that I had those freedoms.

'Here,' I tossed Matty a jumper of mine that had been slung over the arm of the sofa, ignoring the fact his hoodie was somewhere on the floor. 'You're shivering.' I liked to see him in my clothes. The jumper didn't even look feminine on him, but I liked the androgyny it hinted at in my mind.

'Thanks.' He yawned widely, turning back to my stereo and hunting for the cord I had pulled out earlier. 'Do you mind?'

I shook my head, and he plugged his phone in, scrolling through albums. A couple of seconds of lush strings burst through the speakers, and I winced. 'Just not Scott Walker,' I said quietly.

'Oh? Why not?'

'It makes me cry.'

'I'm guessing that would be a bad thing,' he replied drolly, switching the music to Bauhaus.

'Funnily enough, I have a good time with you,' I muttered. 'Hate to ruin it.'

Matty glanced at me again, but didn't pry, which I was thankful for. I got up to make myself a coffee, humming to a familiar song and momentarily daydreaming in the small chore of spooning sugar and pouring milk. When I turned back, he had laid horizontal on the sofa, his eyes closed and one foot tapping against the other. I sipped slowly, watching him for a while, and by the time I finished and went to nudge him, he grunted drowsily.

'Have I tired you out?' I coiled one of his dark ringlets around my finger, a smile on my face.

'Yeah...' he breathed, his lips barely moving as he spoke. I debated whether to wake him, tell him he needed to find his way home.

It was a strange form of turmoil. I didn't mind his extended company. He wasn't irritating me, or boring me. I was in no rush to be alone. The hesitation came from another place, a reluctance borne out of logic. It was funny how, despite leaving so many social rules in the dust as an adult, I still felt beholden to certain ideas - namely, the implicit messages in actions that should be insignificant. If I didn't let Matty stay over, it made my position clear. If I did let him... well, that might muddy the waters.

He was truly out for the count by midnight, and I took this as a passable excuse to leave him on the sofa, rather than waking him and dragging him into my bed. That was one way to keep some semblance of distance, and compromise a little. To mitigate my guilt, I propped a cushion under his head before sneaking upstairs. In my room, as I undressed, I was acutely aware of another's presence in my home, even out of sight. I felt oddly as though I was looking after him. He didn't seem to need looking after, per se, but I could understand how any acquaintance of his might find it difficult to say no to anything he asked. Something made one want to please him.

I enjoyed teasing him, it was true, and playing little games that he was entirely in on. But I couldn't imagine doing anything that would seriously risk his good opinion. And then, as I lay between the rumpled sheets of my bed, tormented by wakefulness, I realised how I cared. _What a burden_ , I thought, _to care like this. What a fucking disaster._

***

After I woke the next morning, I lay in bed for a solid hour, straining my ears for any sound from downstairs. I tried to ignore the fact I was aroused, putting it down to usual morning restlessness. It went away either after I had breakfast or masturbated. Today I chose the latter.

I pulled socks onto my feet before wandering down to the kitchen at last, reluctantly checking in the mirror to make sure my hair hadn't snarled up messily overnight. Matty was already awake and sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a throw around his shoulders, staring down at his phone. He jumped slightly when he saw me, bleary-eyed but his face picture-perfect as ever. It was no use, how hard I tried - I was doomed to see everything in relation to a rectangular frame for life.

'Morning. God, I'm sorry I conked out here, I didn't mean to intrude.'

I shook my head. 'It's no bother. Did you sleep alright?'

'Really nicely, thanks,' he blinked. The sunlight pooled across the wooden boards of the floor, warming the room minute by minute. 'Do you want to get breakfast?'

'Where?' I asked cautiously. 'You mean out?'

'Yeah. My treat.'

'You're alright. Thanks, though.' I smiled brightly to soften the blow, though I felt quite adamant that to push things any further would be a step too far. We would be crossing into misleading territory if I let him take me for _breakfast_. 'I should pick up some film I've had developed... and I think I have a meeting this afternoon.' It was true, I had an appointment about some campaign coming up the following month, a big cash cow that might also prove to be fun to work on. I was juggling my responsibilities. I was occupied.

Matty nodded easily, reaching for his shoes. 'Alright then. I'm probably just trying to put off the press cycle, anyway... you know, once you get going, it's kind of fun. But just the thought feels like hard work right now.'

I shot him a sympathetic look, shuffling my feet as he looked about for his coat. 'You want a coffee for the road?'

'No, don't worry about it. Anyway, um... text me?'

'Sure.' Even though it would probably be him texting in the end. I was rubbish at reaching out. 'Go and dazzle them. It won't be difficult, for you.'

He rolled his eyes, and hooked an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me in a half-hug and pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. And then, in another moment, he was gone, with a tired attempt at a charming smirk and a gentle click of the front door.

At a loose end for the next hour or two, I messaged Phil to see if he was home for picking up the developed images, and Molly, to see if she wanted an update. She responded within less than a minute, asking to drop in and promising fresh pastry if I could give a second opinion on some features. I agreed, and didn't bother changing out of my pyjamas, throwing a jumper on instead.

It was only once the thick wool was pulled over my head and I was flicking the ends of my hair out of the neckline that I smelled the lingering scent Matty had left behind when he wore the garment. It was a heady smell, and my brain gifted me the rather overwhelming flashback of burying my nose in his hair as he made his way down my body, the hot wetness of his tongue against my skin. I quite liked the idea of smelling him in his absence, and lifted the fabric to my nose now in clandestine pleasure.

'Sometimes Al, I really fucking love my job, you know? You _know_ I do. And I know I absolutely cannot take it for granted, but really... really I sometimes fucking hate it,' Molly cried dramatically upon striding over the threshold of my front door. 'Is that fair of me to say? Or does it make me a totally ungrateful little yuppie bitch?'

'You're a lucky, hardworking yuppie bitch who needs to give herself a break, Moll.' I peered into the brown paper bag she held out, before she crushed me against her in a hug. She sighed deeply, and pulled back, sniffing a little.

'You been smoking weed? Got any for me?'

'Yes and no. It was Matty's. And is getting baked before going into work a good idea?'

'I'm on my lunch break. Nobody looks too closely at my eyeballs after two in the afternoon.' Molly raided my kitchen cupboards, pulling a large plate out and arranging croissants and pain au chocolats in a neat circle, pushing the whole pastry platter in the microwave for a few seconds. 'Okay, Matty. I'm not a gossip, you know that... that's Farah's domain' - I shot her a warning look, and she threw her hands up defensively - 'but bring me up to speed, please.'

'You should have placed a bet with me, you know.' I raised my eyebrows teasingly.

'When?'

'When you called, before the party.' Molly's arched brow told me I needed to elaborate. 'Well, he left this _morning_.'

'You told me - oh, you sneak! You said you weren't trying to sleep with him.'

'I wasn't. But I couldn't exactly speak for his intentions, I guess.'

The microwave beeped insistently, and Molly pulled the pastries out, pushing the plate towards me. 'So he came onto you?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes. But I initiated other things. The photography was pretty experimental.'

I didn't have to elaborate here. Molly knew from experience what I was getting at. 'Like in uni?'

'Different. Not as extreme as what we did.'

'What Joel did, you mean.'

I grimaced at this. 'It doesn't even compare. It wasn't even the photography that was an issue. That doesn't mean I want to repeat any of that stuff, but I'm not going to shy away from treading that sort of ground now I have the privacy and ability to.' I took a glossy, warm pain au chocolat, holding a hand underneath to catch any runaway flakes.

'I enjoy mucking about with a camera with you, you know I do,' Molly shrugged, delicately licking melted chocolate off her thumb. 'Though it feels safe with girls, doesn't it?'

'It always did.'

'So, Matty... is a different type of guy?'

'He lets me take charge,' I grinned. Molly's eyebrows flew up at this, and I hastened to correct the thoughts I could see running away with her. 'In the studio, I mean. Not all the time.'

'I hate to be a killjoy,' she squirmed a little, 'but is that reason enough to trust him?'

'I dotrust him,' I said firmly. 'And besides, he's the one that needs to trust me. There's some _interesting_ stuff on my laptop now, I'm telling you.'

'Alright. If you trust him, so do I,' she replied kindly. I was relieved to be able to put her at ease. Because it was something that would always tie us together, intensely close friendship aside; that wariness, that understanding of the importance of agency. The experience of betrayal.


	7. in that moment, you transcended.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after indulging in one another, Matty and Alma are getting on with their lives. But to her surprise, he’s been very busy - and now he wants her in on the action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been so long!! Trying not to leave more than 7-10 days between updates. More deadlines are looming but this story is my emotional support project so I'll probably keep writing.

_He was very tall, with long hair to his shoulders, like a girl's French bob but messier. Joel wasn't an attention seeker, not in the way I used to be, but a quiet presence in every workshop and in the studio each time I went in. His work spoke for itself; haunting images from his childhood home, his grandmother's gnarled, arthritic hands, starkly vulnerable portraits of his father, looking like a startled deer in his potting shed. Joel liked photographing the personal, making everything seem more intimate than it really was. I enjoyed photographing the anonymous, by this time having moved past my teenage fixations on romanticising girlhood. I liked to find humour in my images. Joel seemed to find pain in his._

_Come to my housemate's party tonight, he said. We've got a blow-up pool. It was a July heatwave, the summer months when college was closed and everyone was either fighting it out over barista jobs or managing to swing an internship if they were lucky. My hours and days were irregular, depending on Phil's schedule; he gave me a job helping to develop other people's photos, his own side hustle. It was a quiet Thursday, and in response to Joel, I said yes._

_The party was very strange, a hazy wonderland inside a run-down Victorian villa, with holes in the wall and threadbare carpets. I took mushrooms, which kicked in soon after I arrived, and set about making friends with the mix of people around the pool. Joel appeared at last, a bottle of brandy in his hand, and for the next few hours, I was lost to his company and his thoughtful conversation. He was gentle, but quite serious - in retrospect, rather too self-serious, in the way that young, white, male art students often are. I was in awe of him for some time afterwards. I introduced him to Molly, and although they were complete opposite personalities, it worked. And then things became blurred._

_Molly and I were on and off for a whole year, mostly due to confusion about how we felt about one another. There was real affection there, a strong interpersonal glue holding us together, making us loyal friends. But the physical side of it was a peculiar spanner in the works. So we continued to succumb to that temptation, making one another feel good, exploring our sexuality, playing at a late-adolescent relationship. But she couldn't rationalise exclusivity, since there seemed no point to it - after all, we weren't in love. And I found this difficult until I met Joel._

_This was someone I could commit to, in the sense that I found him hypnotic, addictive and utterly fulfilling in ways I didn't know I needed. The fact that I might have been something less to him passed me by. We formed a casual partnership in workshops, which proved fruitful creatively. Wishful thinking, perhaps - it was fruitful for him._

_In my bedroom in Walthamstow, he used his phone first. Uttering some nonsense about the way my hair tangled on the pillow, he hovered above me, the beady eye of the tiny lens beaming down. And I was captured by him. It didn't take long after that for him to turn me into a regular subject, and on occasion, I expressed reservations. This isn't for this week's workshop, right? I asked him. No, he replied, I'm just trying some new ideas out._

_A couple of languid afternoons when his living room was empty, his housemates in Berlin, and Molly and Joel and I watched Truffaut films, then Tarkovsky, then a Haneke. Building upon the weird feeling the Haneke left us with, and already a bottle of vodka down between us, Joel encouraged Molly and I, his camera clicking intermittently, all our daring laughter filling the air along with the generic student's incense that smoked gently in the corner, the orange, late summer light setting the room aflame._

_And I never thought I'd see those photos - least of all on a gallery wall._

***

Anonymity was so easily taken for granted, I thought, as I ashed a guilty cigarette outside Somerset House, watching security usher away the cult actress I had just spent nine hours photographing meticulously. My stomach rumbled, my eyes stinging a little, half from the brisk wind and half from the effort of squinting at the measurements in my camera viewfinder all day, straining to find perfect images in the set before me. My Uber pulled up, and I hauled my gear into the boot, relishing the enveloping warmth of the back seat.

I had no plans for the evening, having turned Saul down again without much ceremony; he had expressed disappointment, more so than before, and I found the thought that I was his only option faintly ridiculous. He would surely have alternatives. On the drive home, I swiped mindlessly through dating apps, restless and scattered in my thoughts. It all seemed a bit pointless unless I was genuinely horny. There were better ways to fill an empty evening, half the time, weren't there?

I contemplated messaging Matty, to see if he was busy. But after typing and deleting three different messages, I gave up at last. I didn't know what was stopping me, but I couldn't get the tone right. It shouldn't have been hard, and yet I dithered and agonised over it until the taxi pulled up on my road in Cambridge Heath. I saved myself the bother in the end when I saw his posts from a theatre somewhere up in the Midlands. How had I not known he'd been on tour for the last two weeks? Had he neglected to tell me? I couldn't have forgotten such a significant fact, surely.

In a serendipitous moment, my phone buzzed as I curled up on the sofa with my laptop, and when I fumbled with it, Matty's contact flashed upon the screen.

_ALMA i have an extra special idea....! a special commission if you will_

I grinned stupidly at the phone screen, almost hearing the gleeful, hyperactive tone of his voice as if he was saying this all out loud to me.

_i'm on tenterhooks!_

_you said you'd be happy to jostle, right?_

_i recall implying that, yes._

_hang the fuck on_

_you want me to shoot your show??_

_if you're up for it - i'm in bham tonight but london is friday! it's the academy so i'm bricking it in more ways than one_

_idk how you'd feel about it, i know it's not exactly your scene_

_but it's not NOT my scene either..._

_i'm in. put me down for a pass and i'll give it my best_

_fuck yeah!!!_

_it'll be nice having your face in the pit but maybe faintly nerve-wracking too_

This made me giggle to myself like a teenager, and I checked myself quickly. It was still quite unbelievable to me that Matty found me intimidating. _Me_ , of all people. I was a good two inches shorter than him and half as loud.

_nonsense_

_you need to focus on impressing ten thousand people, not looking pretty for my camera. x_

***

I arrived in Brixton just as doors opened, and rocked up to the box office, only to find not only a photo pass but a triple A and guest accompaniment. I texted Matty to check that this was correct, and he replied that it was for a friend, if I wanted. I rang Molly up and entreated her to come down once she could get away from work.

'It's been sold out for months, Moll. You might as well.'

'Ooh, I don't know...' she dithered. 'I look like an absolute mess.'

'Your version of a mess is two-day old hair and wearing Zara instead of Celine, you really don't need to, um... ah, shit,' I groaned, pawing through the pockets of my camera case. 'I've only gone and left my fucking memory card at home. Can you stop at mine? You've still got a key, right?'

'Oh my god. You owe me big time, I swear.'

'No, I don't - you're getting this for free, remember?'

'At least let me nick something from your wardrobe!'

'Fine, grab whatever you want,' I sighed.

'Didn't you say you don't even know the music?' Molly said slyly. 'Sometimes I think this job is wasted on you.'

'Shut up and get a move on. If you could grab a thirty six gig, from the top drawer downstairs, that would be great.' I retraced the steps in my mind's eye, and hesitated, remembering what I had spent the morning testing out. 'Just to warn you, though... there's a couple of prints on the table in the studio. You can look if you want, I guess, but they aren't necessarily intended for prying eyes. You get me?'

'I think so. I've seen plenty of your weirder work.'

'But don't let Matty know you've seen, alright?'

'Matty? Oh shit, is it nudes?' Molly's voice rose hysterically, bordering on cackling laughter.

' _No_ ,' I replied, scandalised. 'Just a bit edgy. You remember? I did tell you, in a manner of speaking.'

'Damn. Okay. I'll avert my eyes and be with you for eight.'

I hung up and hovered on the pavement, staring around the area for somewhere to eat. It seemed too early to be bustling into the venue and getting in the way, surely. I felt like a stereotype just waiting to be filled, and the stares of a few hundred queuing concertgoers were burning holes in my back.

'Fuck it,' I mumbled under my breath, tucking the pass into my inside pocket until I reached the stage door, flashing it surreptitiously at the burly security guard. I rather enjoyed the entitlement that came with the laminate, and slung it around my neck finally. I imagined one could get quite drunk on the power.

The backstage corridor was bustling with people, but clearly signposted, and I knocked warily on the door with their name on before pushing it open. The dressing room, which was already compact, also looked like a bomb had gone off in one corner, with clothes and shoes strewn all over the place, barely half of them on the actual rail that stood against the wall. George perched on the edge of a leather sofa, gingerly inhaling from the stubby, fading end of a joint, and Matty thumbed lazily at an acoustic guitar, his bare back to me.

'Oh, hello,' George said, grinning up at me through heavily lidded eyes. 'I remember you.'

Matty spun around, his eyes lighting up, and he clutched the guitar tighter against his chest. 'Alma! Perfect timing, I can't figure out what to wear-'

'Please,' George groaned, 'he's been driving me up the wall. I don't know the damn difference between those tuxes, someone needs to tell him to just pick one already. Nobody will even notice.'

'People _do_ notice-'

'An eye for detail,' I interrupted, taking the guitar out of Matty's hands and resting it against the arm of the sofa, 'is not a bad thing.' I smirked in George's direction, and he flashed a thankful smile, before taking a call on his phone and making himself scarce. 'Where are the others?' I quizzed Matty, who was laying out a frilled shirt and bit of black silk ribbon over the arm of the sofa, one hand on his hip communicating his indecision.

'With the techs, going through their setups...' he flipped a hand dismissively. 'Can you do that thing on my eyes, like the last batch of photos?' The volume of his voice dropped to a conspiratorial level, and I realised with some amusement that he'd been keeping our shoots to himself.

'The dark, smudged situation?'

'That's the one. It'll stand out underneath the lights, the pink glare can kind of wash you out...'

I pushed Matty into settling on the shirt, jacket and ribbon tie closest at hand, convincing him finally that the difference in impact would be negligible. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at individual coils to let them fall perfectly over his brow, and I forced him into a chair at last.

'You're lucky I had this on me,' I muttered, drawing a thick line over his lashes with the pencil.

'I am. Very, very lucky.'

His earnest tone made me suspicious. I narrowed my eyes at him. 'Are you being facetious?'

'No!' He protested. And then, after a short pause - 'I'm just so glad you could make it. That's all.'

I sighed exaggeratedly, playing the part of a... well, of what? Someone weary of humouring him? But I wasn't weary of humouring Matty, despite wanting him to _think_ I was. It was probably quite dangerous, how much I might be willing to accommodate him. At least in this moment it was only some disheveled Bolanesque makeup, and nothing more extreme. I rubbed gently at the black pigment with the glossy Vaseline, and he blinked spasmodically, his lids fluttering beneath my fingers.

'Does it feel okay?'

'Yeah. Let's see...' He turned around and leaned towards the mirror, lifting his chin as he inspected my handiwork. 'Holy shit. I look _smoking_.'

'You said it,' I laughed lightly, grabbing a tissue to clean the dark smudges off my fingers before they got on any clothes. Matty pulled me in without warning, meeting my lips with his own, kissing me clumsily and surprisingly passionately. I grinned against his mouth, delighting in the delicious warmth of his tongue.

'Great, all - oh, sorry.' We broke apart abruptly as a deep voice echoed from the doorway, and I felt my cheeks go hot. A tall, dark haired man that I didn't recognise was sheepishly digging through the pockets of a duffle coat hanging on the rail. Matty didn't seem at all perturbed, leaning back against the edge of the dressing table with a rather smug look on his face.

'All what?'

'It's all sorted, finally. Ryan adjusted the bridge on the P-bass, should fix that weird fret buzz I got last night.' He raised a hand in my direction. 'Hey. Ross.'

'Alma,' I blushed, wishing I'd been able to provide a better first impression than necking with his bandmate. 'I'll be in the photo pit tonight.'

'Hope you catch my good side,' he said kindly. 'You there for the whole set then?'

'If I can be,' I wondered. 'What's the etiquette again? First three songs, no flash?'

'With that triple A, security won't push you out with the rest, so you can stay the whole set. Just don't blind me, please,' Matty teased.

'Don't tempt me,' I said, elbowing him hard even as his gaze flickered down to my mouth and back to my eyes again. A rumble came from the main room as the support act started up, inciting the shrill cheers of a growing crowd. 'Now let me do my job.'

'They're not part of the brief,' Matty whined. 'Just us.'

'Just you, you mean,' I poked my tongue out at him playfully, swiping my camera from its case and slipping out the door, following my ears to the thrill of the auditorium.

It was an alien environment for me, and I was late compared to the other photographers, with spare SLRs hanging off their belts and extraordinarily long telephoto lenses. I felt like an amateur in comparison. I hovered to the side, sacrificing nearness for some more control over lighting, but even then it was frustrating not to be able to exercise control over the shadows, the colour of the tones and the constantly shifting composition of each frame. Shooting at a concert, I was quickly realising, was a whole lot more about instinct and flukes. It was a good job I had snuck away to practice before the guys started their set, so that I wouldn't cock that up too.

I filled up the remaining space on my memory card quickly, and Molly arrived during the interval to save me with the spare she picked up from my house. I slipped away to the stage door again, meeting her there and passing her the guest laminate.

'I know you said not to mention it,' she whispered loudly, cupping a hand around my ear to make herself heard over the clamour of activity. 'But those photos are really gorgeous.'

'I only said not to mention it to Matty, I like hearing your opinion,' I replied, flushing with curiosity. 'Which ones did you see?'

'There were two laid out, one where he's just kind of staring down the camera, and the other where he's, um... his hand is down his pants?'

'Ah. Yes.' Just my luck, of course, that Molly would see one of the more indecorous images. 'That's a long story.'

'Not sure I can look him in the eye after that,' she snickered. I shot her a death glare.

'Where d'you want to be? Balcony?'

'Nah, let me stand downstairs. I'll squeeze in a back corner or something.'

After escorting Molly past the barrier and leaving her in the crowd, I sidled into the photo pit and waited for the show to start. If I thought the atmosphere for the support act had been chaotic, it was nothing compared to this; as the house lights went down, the other photographers angled for the best view as the four of them walked on, silhouetted by blinking LED screens.

For the first three songs, I bided my time, letting others capture the feverish energy of the opening songs. Matty was electric, his hips and legs constantly moving, hands flailing expressively and his face switching from mischievous to sultry, to awestruck and then to unbridled ecstasy, spanning the full spectrum of emotion. It seemed the other photographers had no time at all to get their best work, before being ushered out of the pit, but a flash of my lanyard meant that I could stay, and I finally edged up towards the stage, trying to gauge how to do the band justice.

I started with George, but quickly realised it was effective to try and capture two of them in the same frame, evoking the energy they bounced between each other. So - George and Adam, lifting arms and leaning into rhythms, focusing intently on the job at hand. Then Matty and Ross, which was easy enough, as Matty leaned on his shoulder and tossed the microphone from hand to hand. I felt confident I'd managed to capture a few tiny instances of communication, of teasing between Matty and each of the others. In the same way as when I worked in a studio, I lost all awareness of my physical self, simply moving to where I needed to place myself in order to get the best angle, the best frame. 

To my relief, Matty appeared to ignore me, for the most part. But as a slow, rolling synth sound rang out at the beginning of a slower song, he got to his knees, dipping his head towards me as he sang imploringly, and I took a step back in surprise. And then as he lifted his gaze, he looked me dead in the eye, and I realised what I needed to do, what _he_ was trying to do. He lowered the mic from his mouth a little, his lips enunciating syllables with perfect, pink precision. I blinked, and for a flustered moment my mind's eye flashed back to the way his mouth moved as he spoke after burying his face between my legs... _the way you say my name when you come... that's heaven._

It was as though time was moving in slow motion, or maybe the song really was that slow; he nodded heavily on each beat of George's kick drum, his hair falling forward and obscuring his face all over again. I wanted to make him look like some sort of fallen angel, the light fanning out around him and the makeup running under his eyes. Whichever way he turned his head, there _was_ something divine about him, features you couldn't put together in your head by simply imagining a celestial being.

Matty got to his feet again by the end of the song, and I lowered my camera, deciding to just listen and enjoy the next few. It was a short-lived intention though, and as I felt something in my chest swell in awe at the emotive force of his performance, I wanted to try to capture that too. At the close of the set, the house lights went down, and in the intermittence before the encore, a fizzing energy filled the room, the anticipation of five thousand people rising up until I thought my eardrums would burst. It turned out the feedback was causing that last effect, but as Matty bounded back onto the stage, looking like a man possessed, the crescendo peaked, and the final song began.

It was at this point that I panned outwards and tried to get some wide-angle shots, attempting in vain to catch the entire atmosphere. Matty jumped down, just metres from me again, and climbed up onto the barrier as kids snatched at his clothes, his hair, anything they could grab hold of. I was faintly alarmed, feeling some concern for his safety even as I watched intently through my viewfinder - clicking away, his grin so wide I wanted to be able to show him afterwards, to say _look! In that moment, you transcended. I felt it. Did you feel it too?_

In a blur, he climbed out in one piece, though his shirt was rumpled and had come untucked from his trousers, and the band played out the final few notes before taking leave of the stage, the roar of the crowd begging for more, a palpable sigh of disappointment that it was all over as the house lights came on again. At the other end of the barrier, Molly waited for me with a slightly wild look in her eyes that told me she hadn't been standing still.

'Incredible,' she breathed, letting me drag her by the sleeve into the backstage corridor, flashing my laminate at whoever I needed to along the way. 'You're mates with rockstars, Alma, you know that?'

'Don't call him that,' I groaned. 'He'll hear, and then his ego won't fit through the door of my studio. But I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

'Well, didn't _you_?'

'Yeah,' I said softly. 'Honestly? I didn't know he had it in him.'

A banging noise accompanied by a series of loud whoops emanated from the dressing room, and Molly and I exchanged telepathic glances of excited curiosity before I popped my head around the door. Shirtless again, Matty held a foaming bottle of champagne in his hand whilst George yanked at the foil around the cork of a second bottle. 'Alma!' He cheered, and I winced as the second cork flew up and hit the ceiling deafeningly.

'Do you always go this hard after a show?'

'Not always,' Adam replied. He was surprisingly softly-spoken, and probably the least sweaty of the four of them after the show's exertion.

'But when you get that reception in London, it's hard not to,' Matty laughed, making a terrible slurping sound off the top of the champagne bottle. 'Want some?'

I took it off him and passed it to Molly first, who tipped her head back and necked it for a solid three seconds. This gave me the opportunity to introduce her, at least, and I was suddenly aware of other, unfamiliar eyes on us in the cramped room. As some more people squeezed through the doorway behind us, I realised we were amongst quite a few of their friends and crew. 'I'm going for a quick smoke,' I stammered to no one in particular, ducking out again and leaving Molly chatting away happily to Adam.

The corridor was cooler and less stuffy, and I gulped down breaths of fresh air, feeling static overcome my vision as I reached an open window. _So much for quitting_ , I groaned inwardly, ripping the filmly plastic off a new pack of Marlboros that had been burning a hole in my coat pocket. A siren wailed from the main road as a fox tipped over a bin in someone's front garden, the richly greasy smell of kebabs pushed from a takeaway's extractor fan somewhere a few doors down. 'Ah, Brixton,' I muttered under my breath, cupping a hand around the end of the cigarette and flame of my lighter.

'Having a moment?' Matty's voice echoed, and I turned to see him close the door to the dressing room gently behind him, his white shirt hanging limply off his shoulder.

'In a manner of speaking,' I smiled wearily. He nodded in understanding and leaned against the wall next to me, picking absent-mindedly at the ten layers of paint that were chipping away around the windowsill from years of refurbishments. The old theatre had seen so much - first films and enormous crowds in an auditorium, then raves and legacy bands. I liked the thought that Matty had joined that tradition.

'Do you ever get the uncanny feeling that you're living in your own past?' I murmured.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean - I think I mean - that this will be a memory for years to come. Everything feels so visceral and current and present right now. But it'll go down in my memories as the first time I saw you play, or the first time I shot a concert. It'll become something nostalgic in a year, or five years, or twenty.'

'Oh dear, you _are_ having a moment,' Matty laughed, his grin lopsided. 'I'm not sure if that's unsettling or reassuring. And besides, I try not to think about myself in middle age,' he sighed. 'It makes me anxious.'

'Really? Don't you think you'll still be doing this?'

'I don't know. I might be making music or art in an entirely different capacity.'

I held out the cigarette pack, and he extracted one wordlessly. 'I'm quite looking forward to aging. Not at the extreme end, I mean, but being thirty and forty. I hope it'll be my prime.'

'Oh, yeah. It probably will.'

'What are you saying, that I'm not hot enough yet?' I teased.

'Far from it,' Matty side-eyed me slyly. 'But it's not aging that bothers me. I don't really give a toss about the physical side of it. Just the future. That's difficult to comprehend on a grand scale.'

I raised my eyebrows, ashing my cigarette out the window. 'Sorry, this is probably far too morbid a conversation to be having right now. We should be sinking that champagne.'

' _You_ should be. I've already had half a bottle,' he grinned giddily. 'Let me introduce you to people?'

'Sure, after I've caught up with you.' I acquiesced, and we both stubbed out the ends of the cigarettes. 'Where are you heading tonight? I can email the photos over to you.'

'I don't have any plans, actually.' Matty stalled for a moment, thrusting one hand into the pocket of his trousers awkwardly, and looking at me through his tousled hair.

'Then come to mine,' I said slowly, cocking my head to one side. 'If you want.'

'Okay then,' he chirped, turning eagerly back to the room. At the doorway, he nudged me in front of him, a hand resting lightly on my hip. It felt surprisingly reassuring, especially since such an action would have irritated me coming from anyone else. But this was Matty's realm, and I was comfortable if he had my back.

Molly noticed, I saw, her gaze flitting down to his hand and back to my face again, and I smiled knowingly back at her, an exchange of understanding. He dragged me down on the sofa next to him too, and as friends and colleagues chipped into conversation, and jokes turned into gossip, gossip turned into anecdotes, and my self-consciousness faded. It helped that there wasn't anyone there that reminded me of anyone else I had once known.

By 2am, the room had all but cleared out. Molly and I sat cross-legged on the table opposite one another, passing a joint around with Matty, who was lying supine on the leather couch. As the remnants of weed evaporated into the air, we booked our cabs, preparing for the journey home. And as we stumbled downstairs and clambered into cars, Molly noted that she was the only one leaving alone.


	8. no longer an island.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the show, Alma and Matty take advantage of mutual insomnia and (yet again) the contents of her kitchen.

‘I’m not as tired as I should be,’ Matty said doubtfully, as we got out of the car outside my flat. ‘I can’t fucking sleep now. I’m just buzzing for _so_ long after.’

‘Don’t force yourself to then.’ I unlocked the front door and flicked on the lights, vaguely aware of the ringing that still persisted in my ears. ‘I’ll get us something to eat, make yourself comfy.’

He dropped his bag on the floor beside my sofa and planted himself face down on the cushions, letting out a long groan. ‘I think I might just sink into this thing.’

‘Not before taking that eyeliner off,’ I replied shortly, opening the fridge and staring at its contents.

‘Whoops,’ he sat up, running a finger gingerly under his eye and inspecting it with a frown. ‘You know… I have a guy I can call. Want to get some coke?’

‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ I said hesitantly. ‘I hate the comedown. I swore it off a couple years ago.’

‘D’you mind if I get some for myself?’

‘Go ahead,’ I shrugged. ‘You like bagels? Smoked salmon?’

‘Fuck yeah. Better than Chicken Cottage, isn't it?’

Matty made his call, and he ran through all my playlists whilst I toasted the bagels, which was a surefire way of re-energising him. By the time the guy arrived with the cocaine, I doubted he would need it, but he promptly knocked back two lines and came to pester me in the kitchen, peeling back the film on the salmon and pulling it apart in fascination.

‘It’s so weird, isn’t it? How weird shit tastes so good.’

‘Yeah, _very_ weird,’ I laughed at him. ‘I think I need to catch up with you.’

‘Go on then.’ He cut two more lines on the glassy black surface of his phone and pushed it towards me. _Fuck it,_ my internal monologue insisted, _it’s an occasion. It’s permissible._

The high hit me like a tonne of very pleasant bricks. I went to turn the music up, all care for the neighbours flying out along with my creeping fatigue. I unpacked my camera, and Matty followed me down to the studio as I loaded the memory card up on the desktop. He stared at the frames as they flickered up on screen, his pupils blown wide.

‘Damn, Alma…’ he murmured. I liked the way he said my name. He seemed to like saying it too, rolling the sound around in his mouth. It was the sort of name that made people sound hotter when they said it during sex, something I noticed aged nineteen when a boy called Toby moaned it into my ear. Needless to say, I did not return the favour.

I made room for Matty on the seat, and he hovered his hand over the mouse questioningly until I nodded, and he scrolled through my images.

‘Oh,’ he exclaimed, ‘is that what I think it is?’

‘Depends. What’s your guess?’

‘It’s one of those ghost stations, isn’t it? Aldwych?’

‘Congrats, you win…’ I glanced around and grabbed a box of polaroid film. ‘One photo of your choosing.’

‘Now?’

‘Right now.’ I yanked some drawers open, finding the camera to match and slotting the film inside. His eyes lit up endearingly.

‘Pass it over then.’

‘You don’t want me to take one?’

‘It’s a photo of _my_ choosing, so...’ He lifted it to his eye and faced me, dropping one hand to touch my knee beseechingly. ‘Would you mind very much?’

I stared at the lens, pausing to consider my answer. ‘Alright then.’

‘Okay… stand up for a moment.’ Matty’s hand moved from my knee to my elbow as I stood, and I suppressed a giggle as he guided me across the room, until we were almost at the stairs. ‘Now sit.’

I did as he said, perching on the second to last cast-iron step. I watched the hovering lens and waited cautiously for him to direct me further, but with an abrupt _snap_ , the film ejected and dropped to the floor.

‘I wasn’t ready! Do I look bug-eyed?’ I snatched up the photograph and squinted at the barely lightened image.

‘Not that it would _matter_ ,’ Matty pried it from my reluctant hands, ‘but you looked perfect, actually. Just the way I see you. Leave it. Show me the photos from last time, I’m gagging to see them.’

I grumbled under my breath, pretending to make a fuss, but I was keen for him to see the analogue film I shot, and Phil had returned the developed roll along with a disc of scans so I could pick which ones to print. ‘Do you remember how you felt when we took these?’ I asked curiously.

‘Um… a bit blissed out? I mean, we’d just fucked, hadn’t we?’ He said it proudly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You look like you’re in another world, that’s all.’

‘Maybe I was stoned.’

‘ _Maybe_ you’re a good actor, or model, or whatever. Look at this one,’ I pulled up an image where you could glimpse the night sky out of the window behind him, his eyes dark and shining as they reflected back the light of the lamp I’d pulled up behind me. ‘You look like you’ve had a rough night out in '68.’

‘I look quite emotional.’

‘Yeah. Do you see why I asked now?’

‘I don’t know what I was trying to project. Probably a lost-little-boy, doe-eyed sort of thing.’

‘Mm. Quite misleading, isn’t it?’ I teased.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you’re not very innocent.’

In response, Matty pushed my hair away from my neck and pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, sucking gently at the skin and making me inhale sharply. ‘And aren’t you glad for that?’ He muttered against my jaw.

I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling very light-headed. ‘You have no idea.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘Watching you this evening… I kept thinking about your mouth.’

‘Yeah?’ He trailed lower down my neck, grazing the skin with his teeth.

‘I need some more coke,’ I gasped, but made no motion to pull away, my eyes fluttering closed as his hand slid up my inner thigh. I’d put on thin, silky trousers for the evening out, and his touch felt hyper-close through the material; just before he reached my crotch, he yanked his hand away and got to his feet.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He stuck his tongue out between his teeth lewdly and darted up the steps back to the kitchen. _This guy_ , my inner monologue said in disbelief, and I tried to ignore the insistent throbbing between my legs, blinking again at the image on my screen, Matty’s eyes piercing my peace of mind. Had I managed it? Had I captured the elusive quality I wanted? He hollered my name from upstairs suddenly, and I snapped out of my trance to get up and climb the stairs.

‘Yeah?’

‘We forgot about the food.’

‘Oh…’ I inspected the bagels in the toaster, crispy but stone cold. ‘Fuck it. I’m not all that hungry anyway. What are you doing?’

Matty was standing with the fridge door open, picking up jars and packets to inspect them before putting each one back. ‘Trying to find something I can lick off your tits.’

I snorted with laughter, and a second later felt the bottom of my stomach drop away in anticipation. He closed the fridge again and cut another couple of lines on the kitchen counter, hoovering one up and pushing the rolled twenty pound note towards me. I tucked my hair behind my ears and copied him.

‘Go upstairs,’ I leaned up to his ear and murmured. ‘I’ll follow you.’

He did as I asked, but not without starting to unbutton his shirt as he turned away from me, a filthy smile playing on his lips. I cast my gaze around the kitchen, trying to think of something else that might produce the desired effect, and landed on the fruit bowl. _Perfect_. I liked that this was becoming a theme - it appealed to my enjoyment of sensual comforts, and Matty in particular was the kind of person I wanted to experience with as many senses as possible. After all, it had been my idea to take the cherries into the studio.

When I reached my room, he stood in front of the open door to my wardrobe in just his pants, the crumpled white shirt loose and open against his chest and the trousers tossed aside. He turned around upon hearing my footsteps, and I saw he was holding one of my skirts against him, a pleated navy one I usually wore with a blazer and loafers like a disreputable schoolgirl.

‘Oh, _yes_ ,’ I said gleefully. ‘Put it on.’

‘Think it would be a good look?’

‘You’ve got incredible legs. Almost balletic. And the way you move, well… you’d suit it.’

Matty sighed and threw it back into my wardrobe. ‘Not while I’ve got a raging hard-on.’ Involuntarily, my gaze dropped to his crotch, my face betraying my keen interest in the state of his hard-on. He put his hands on his hips, teasingly jutting them forward. ‘What’ve you got in your hand?’

‘Catch.’ I threw the nectarine to him, and he rolled it back and forth in his hands, running his thumb over the plump red skin as I pulled my shirt over my head. ‘On the bed, not here. The covers are easier to clean than the carpet.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ he breathed, tugging his own shirt off his shoulders and stepping forward. He reached behind me to grab at my arse, kneading the flesh and pressing his erection against my abdomen; my clit fluttered sharply in response.

Matty brought the nectarine to my lips, an expression of intent fascination on his face. I bit down on the ripe fruit, feeling the skin split beneath my teeth and the tart, yellow juice run under my chin, pooling around my collar bones. His tongue dipped to lap at the drops, and I breathed in the hair that was under my nose, smelling the heady combination of smoke and sweat and whatever tasteful stuff he washed it with. The muscles in my face tensed at the merciless building of arousal between my legs, but were forced to relax again when he kissed me, fervently, ravenously, his tongue filling my mouth divinely.

I sat back onto the bed and wriggled out of my trousers as Matty helped me rip them away and dump them on the floor. ‘The honey… it’s on the bedside table.’

He paused, smirking and letting me prise the dripping nectarine from his hands. ‘It was already here?’

I squirmed a little. ‘I have certain associations with the taste now.’

He ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he flipped the cap open, and knelt between my parted knees. He was breathing heavily from the ferocity of our kiss, and I savoured the perfect shape of him, the thrill in watching his dick harden and strain at his underwear and feeling a desperate need to pull back the final layer. ‘Good. Lie back for me.’

A thin trickle of the honey ran over my chest, circling each nipple, and when Matty leaned down to lick it off, it was an even better feeling than usual, his tongue swirling forcefully against my skin to pick up the thick, sticky sweetness. He cupped my crotch with one hand, using the heel of his palm to apply pressure to my clit, and my hips lifted involuntarily to meet the sensation. I fumbled for the half-eaten nectarine, wanting to taste that on him too. He sucked at the soft flesh and lifted his lips to mine, where I ran my tongue searchingly over his mouth.

‘Taste good?’ He mumbled, breaking away a little.

‘Delicious,’ I grinned, running my free hand down his back and slipping it under the elastic of his pants. ‘Take these off.’

Matty sat back and yanked his underwear down, and I watched with satisfaction, catching the juice that ran down my wrist from the remains of the nectarine. He balanced on his knees, entirely naked, and grabbed my wrist for himself, closing his lips around my index finger, making a show of the act and knowingly gazing up at me through his eyelashes. I was reminded that this must be what made fucking or being blown so good for guys; the warm wetness of a tongue, a mouth, a cunt. It triggered something psychologically in me. 

I nudged the last bit of fruit towards him, and he bit into it until only the hard, wrinkled pit remained, taking this too and rolling it around in his mouth lasciviously until it was clean. I held my hand out for it and tossed it aside at last, peppering his cheek and jaw with kisses as my fingers migrated down his body and across the hot, taut skin of his abdomen.

He thrust slightly into my hand as I circled his cock near the tip, running my thumb over the head. ‘You’re so hard,’ I muttered against his neck. ‘All for me?’

‘Completely,’ he groaned lightly, dazed for a moment before reaching to his side, and I couldn’t work out what he was doing until I felt something smooth and syrupy coat my fingers. I glanced down to see the honey running over my hand where he had poured it, oozing between my knuckles, and I bent down, bringing my mouth to my hand rather than vice versa and cleaning the back of my palm before licking delicately at where his cock was tipped with gold. The eroticism of the moment was sublime, compounded by the genuine pleasure I got from the taste. It was supremely easy to enjoy going down on Matty, but regardless of how gorgeous he was, the addition of something sweet and saccharine still enhanced the act.

And _god_ , he tasted good, all over, even once I’d managed to clean all the honey off him. After I began to dip down further and blow him in earnest, he jerked his hips back, his hands cupping my jaw and encouraging me up again. ‘God… I want to be inside you so fucking badly,’ he groaned, trailing his cock around my clit and nudging needily between the folds.

‘Only when I say,’ I teased, settling back onto the sheets, wrapping my legs around his waist. Matty watched, agonised, as I flexed against him. ‘Slowly…’ I muttered, and he pushed forward at last, penetrating me slowly. We held each other’s gaze, lips parted as breaths caught in throats, and I tipped my head back as he came to a halt, our abdomens touching. My head spun, the space between my hips radiating the intoxicating feeling of being full and utterly subsumed by someone else. Part of the pleasure in sex for me lay in giving up the boundaries between my body and another’s, relinquishing something that seemed inexpressible except through metaphor. _I am no longer an island._

Matty drew me onto his lap as he thrust into me, over and over, cradling my upper body and dragging his tongue down my chest. I clung onto his shoulders for dear life and stability amid our frenzied movements, gasping into the thick curls that my fingers tangled in, fists clenching at the furious tension coiling deep down. All I was conscious of was Matty, his body, this feeling, Matty, his body… I rolled my hips sharply into his, panting and tugging his head up so that I could see his face as he fucked me, his bottom lip caught under his teeth and releasing with a moan. I loved that he was loud. I felt the urge to express all this but there were no words I could blurt out that fit the moment, without being utterly and uncontrollably feral.

We had dragged the process out so much by this point that neither of us were going to last much longer. His hands smacked desperately against my arse, pulling me tighter against him, and the pain from his fingers digging in was sublime. I threw my arm over his neck, crying out a garbled chain of expletives as I clenched around him and orgasmed, my heels digging into the small of his back and trying in vain to prolong the climax. Matty’s eyes squeezed shut and his cheeks flushed pink as he came, twitching inside me, his pretty mouth parted in a strangled gasp. I stroked the hair back from his sticky forehead, exhaling in time with him as we caught our breath.

‘You always feel so incredible,’ he sighed raggedly, laying me back again, slipping out and rolling onto the sheets beside me. I smiled manically at him, thinking that I was able to say the same but not quite sure why the words wouldn’t arrive on my tongue.

‘Reckon you’ll be able to sleep now?’ I asked, running my fingers over his chest where his ribs were just visible. I traced one of the tattoos there with absent-minded fascination.

‘I should bloody hope so.’

I could feel his come trickling slowly between my legs and the sheets, aware of the growing conflict between how deliciously hot it felt and the inevitable discomfort as I tried to sleep. Reluctantly, I dragged myself up and tapped his thigh. ‘Think I’m going to run a bath. Do you want to get in while I strip these sheets?’

I bundled the old bedding in a pile by the door and pulled a clean set out of a cupboard as Matty soaked for ten minutes, and I tied my hair up and joined him once my bed looked fresh and neat again. He reached out for me as I climbed in the tub, wrapping his arms around my torso and hugging me against him, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck.

‘Alright, alright,’ I giggled, ‘I’m supposed to be getting clean, not dirtying you up again.’

‘You’re right, you’re filthy, aren’t you?’ He muttered archly in my ear, and I slapped his thigh, sending water up the wall tiles.

‘Shut up and soap me, I’m fucking exhausted.’

Giving up his facetiousness, Matty was surprisingly careful in helping me clean up, gently kneading my upper back when I rubbed at an aching spot. Even as he ran his hands over my nipples and between my legs, it was functional and attentive rather than an opportunity to feel me up, ensuring no residue or stickiness was left behind, though I couldn’t help jerking my leg a little at his delicate touch. ‘Your hair is so lovely,’ he commented, burying his nose in the nape of my neck. ‘Can I wash it?’

‘If you want,’ I said cautiously, letting it down from its hastily tied knot and pointing to the things I wanted him to use on it. I wasn’t used to this. It gave me a startling flashback to being very young suddenly, a rather conflicting association in the given moment. Matty and I were both naked in the bath, but it wasn’t exactly sexual any more, and in a way even the sex itself was a grown-up sort of care for one another, attending to each other’s wants and desires.

My gaze slid across the room to the bathroom mirror. He was frowning to himself in concentration as he combed through the dark strands with his fingers, much straighter than his rampant curls, and I noticed the appearance of my own vulnerability, hugging my knees to my chest, feeling small and warm and cared for. It was utterly surreal, in the sense that in the back of mind it felt slightly like an elaborate game or pretense. _What the fuck_ , my interior monologue uttered, too drowsy to object in any cohesive way.

But then the voice grew menacing, and whispered to me. _It’s pure fallacy. You know that, Alma. So don’t fucking kid yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted it to be a peach, but... we all know that reference, don't we?


	9. glad-rags.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alma begins to fall into a pattern with Matty - and it's just the way she likes it, no more, no less. Besides, she has a career to focus on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w for dubcon and gaslighting

I woke earlier than I expected to, considering how late we eventually tumbled into bed. Matty didn’t snore, thankfully, but I could still hear the peaceful rhythm of his breath in my ear as I lay there, watching the pale, watery sunlight streak under the curtains and across the carpet. I grew restless, and disentangled myself from his limbs and the sheets.

He looked so very delicate at rest, in sharp contrast to his bombastic waking self; really, it was only when he opened his mouth that I was reminded he was a normal man. In repose, he could pass for something far more mystical, but he was too grounded for that word. It was actually a good combination, I decided, thinking of all the people I’d met in the past who appeared ethereal but sounded artificial and affected when they spoke. Matty couldn’t have sounded artificial if he tried.

It felt good to be clean, and I was grateful for my good sense in running the bath before sleeping. I slipped quietly down to the kitchen, and down the steps again to the studio. A small, dark square of something lay in the middle of the floor, and I bent down to pick it up. It was the polaroid photo Matty had taken of me, fully developed at last. I looked striking, the lighting emphasising my dark eyes and hair, and my expression was pleasantly at ease, considering I had been caught unawares when he took it. It was odd to look at, and yet a real photo that carried my face felt uncannily like a stabilising object. It was possibly my favourite in years.

‘I feel kind of bad that I took that.’ Matty’s voice echoed from above, cracking slightly from sleep, making me jump. He was perched on the top step in his underwear and the t-shirt I lent him, peering down.

‘I thought you were asleep,’ I said warily.

‘Nah, only dozing. I felt you get up.’

I climbed back up the steps, and he followed me back to my room. ‘Why do you feel bad?’ I asked curiously.

‘I don’t think I should’ve asked in the first place, since I knew you didn’t like it,’ he said ruefully, hugging himself and stretching his neck from side to side.

‘There was no harm in asking. And if I _really_ didn’t want to, you’d know about it. Remember what I said before?’ I grasped Matty’s hand quickly, slipping the photo into it. ‘I don’t lie or exaggerate.’

He nodded, but his gaze was still on the image of me, the glossy paper caught between his fingers. He turned away to hunt for his stage clothes, recovering them from their piles at the end of the bed.

‘Don’t get back into that shirt,’ I stopped him. ‘It’s all sweaty. You can leave mine on, I don’t mind.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, it’s no problem.’

‘Thanks.’ He buttoned up the trousers and shrugged his jacket on, noticeably quiet. ‘I’ll, um… I’ll leave you to your day?’

‘Alright,’ I said brightly. ‘Thanks.’ Something in the air was odd, and I tried to dispel it with my voice. But he had been quick to suggest leaving, so perhaps he’d taken a hint from last time.

He kissed me on the cheek, which I didn’t have the energy to analyse, although once the front door closed and he had gone, I felt unsettled. I told myself again that it was a good thing, that it kept our dynamic, our arrangement - whatever this was - safe and consistent. And yet I still felt a tug as I watched him walk up the short drive and onto the main road, disturbed at the thought of being entirely alone in my own home. This had never bothered me before. I did _well_ alone, I enjoyed my space. I put it down to boredom and idleness.

If I needed people around me so badly, I rationalised, it clearly indicated I wasn’t committing myself to my work as fully as I should, so I sent Farah a long-winded text, wheedling for some help. I needed an agent.

***

_sarah is an absolute g, i promise. i mean, according to rami, who i trust with my life._

I reread Farah’s text as I waited in the cafe, a slightly twee place in Covent Garden. I had a portfolio in my bag, just in case, but I hoped that the venerable Sarah would have a decent working knowledge of my stuff if she was open to working together. My phone lay on the marble-topped table as I scrolled lazily with one finger, flicking away a message from Saul as it dropped onto the top of the screen. He was the least of my concerns; Frankie had invited me to an ‘utterly lawless’ studio party in Hackney, according to his definition, and I was charged with documenting the evening. It wasn’t the sort of work I envisaged chasing again, but it sounded like a good distraction, so I accepted.

My phone vibrated again, and it was Sarah at last. _Hi Alma, just got here - where are you sat?_ I glanced up and saw a tall red-haired woman at the counter, surveying the cafe with a quizzical expression. Her eyebrows lifted as she saw me raise a hand in greeting, and she strode over, her long ponytail swishing. I wasn’t short but Sarah towered over me; some people around the six foot mark had the sort of bad stoop that implied they were insecure about their height and wanted to blend in, but Sarah’s posture was proud and upright, owning her impressive stature. She went in for a hug instead of the strange, fluttery cheek kiss that a lot of professional women do, and I noticed she smelled like grapefruit.

‘Hi, Alma - god, I hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ she said, with a quick squeeze of my elbow and apologetic smile. ‘Had a nightmare with my landlord this morning, I’m tempted to just break the lease and tell him to stuff it, honestly - but you don’t want to hear all that. I’m here now and it’s a pleasure!’

‘You’re alright,’ I grinned, pushing a menu towards her. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve already got a panini coming.’

Sarah was refreshingly down to earth, lacking in self-importance but cheerily proud of her accomplishments. There was no false modesty in her as she rattled through her latest bookings and showed me the results on an iPad she whipped out of her bag.

‘Sorry, this is only for meetings, really,’ she grimaced at the screen. ‘I don’t use it day to day, it makes me look like a bit of a wanker.’

‘Whatever’s practical, it’s okay,’ I grinned back. ‘I’m probably too old-fashioned, lugging this around.’ I gestured to my folio leaning against my chair. ‘But this is the thing, I don’t want to worry about how to sell myself, if you know what I mean. Just making sure I’m busy. I do very well for myself, but I need to spread myself out a bit more, avoid being pigeonholed and keep myself occupied. You know?’

‘I do.’ The iPad went back on the table, and she waved someone over for the bill. ‘I thought we might walk and talk a bit - not because I’m in a rush at all, there’s just something I want to show you. Is that okay?’

‘Of course.’

Sarah bought us both coffees to go, and we sipped on them as we walked through Seven Dials, the hordes of Christmas shoppers threatening to block our way at times. It was funny how, despite my recent lethargy and demotivation, I had still managed to distract myself from the onset of the festive season. I used to love it. Sarah paused in front of a few windows, admiring a new collection in the Maje store, pointing and laughing at the giant cheeses in Neal’s Yard. She had an infectiously warm disposition; I couldn’t work out why I was so disarmed by it, until the sky began to darken, and I realised - she reminded me of my younger self.

This was odd considering she was older than me. But it made me wonder what I might have been like if I hadn’t changed, folded in on myself, reshaped and remoulded my outward persona. I thought of the rough, grey exterior of geodes, and their hard, sparkling purple innards, like a very expensive, very tough Easter egg. We stopped outside the Rococo shop, rather appropriately.

‘They sell chocolate potatoes. And chocolate olives! What an idea.’

I peered through the window, looking at the intricately wrapped bags of edible novelties. ‘I want to buy some.’

They were over ten pounds a bag, but I figured expensive chocolate was the least I could purchase for my mum, in lieu of my presence at Christmas. It would be my second year away, and I was trying to work out how to break it to her again. Her partner, Neil, would have his sons over. I didn’t want to share the house with adult step-brothers I barely knew and their snotty babies. The only pitfall was not being able to see Ruth, down from Glasgow. But that, too, could be remedied with a tasteful gift from Liberty’s and perhaps a weekend up there in January.

Sarah and I reached Soho at last, and the gallery she wanted to take me to. The square was a good deal quieter than the high street, and as she pushed open the towering glass door, I welcomed the warm air on my face. Exchanging nods with the young, besuited man on the front desk, she led me through to the main room.

‘This is where I first saw your work, you know. I think it was… 2014? The man with the ducks… and the boy with enormous glasses. It made me laugh,’ she said gently. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, actually,’ I grinned, unwinding my scarf from around my neck. ‘I aim to amuse. I collaborated with some old friends for that.’

‘When Farah told me you were looking for an agent, and I looked you up, I couldn’t believe it was the same Alma Bergmann. And the material in there, now,’ - she gestured towards my slim portfolio - ‘well, you’ve come a long way even since then.’

My cheeks reddened a little in pleasure at the flattery. She faced the large print on the wall in front of us, a portrait of a wizened old lady spinning yarn somewhere in Peru. Her gaze slid back to me for a moment. ‘I won’t ask for a contract outright, not for a bit. But you let me know what you want to do over the next month. Give me a few weeks to test the waters, I’ll handle your calendar. Sound like a good deal?’

‘Sure. I mean, yes. I’d like that.’ I exhaled awkwardly, relieved with the outcome. Sarah flashed me a broad smile.

‘Excellent.’ She leaned in towards the label beside the print. ‘Who’s this by then…’

I squinted at the small print, and stiffened instantly, breathing very shallowly.

‘Joel Douglas? I’ve heard shady stuff about him, actually. Kind of makes me wish I hadn’t spent so long looking at this now, before I realised whose it was. You know his agent, Mark Harrington, he’s a real skeezy bloke, always looks down his nose at me…’

 _Peru_. I hoped cruelly that he had stayed there. ‘He’s overrated,’ I said with barely concealed distaste.

‘I think you’re right.’ Sarah raised her brows at me, rolling her eyes. ‘Sick to death of lads like him who think a gap yah qualifies as artistic growth.’

Her disparagement of him lifted my spirits considerably, but I still felt nauseated seeing his work hung on a wall that commanded so much respect, when he deserved barely a fraction of the good fortune that came his way. Ironically, his work wasn’t even that bad. Its merit was just tainted, and I felt mild curiosity at where Sarah had heard her rumours from. It was comforting to know my future agent would be on my side, in that respect.

My phone rang from deep inside my coat pocket, vibrating underneath my gloves. I excused myself and hovered in the entrance to the gallery so as not to disturb anyone trying to appreciate the remaining art. Matty’s name flashed up on the screen, and as I took the call, I registered the quick shot of adrenaline the sight had given me.

‘Hey, Matty.’

‘Alma,’ he said sweetly, something in his voice expressing a gladdened heart at reaching me. ‘This is just a quick one, are you busy?’

‘No, um… I’m out, but just in a gallery in Soho. Been meeting an agent.’

‘Oh! Sounds like a big deal, has it gone well?’

 _Overall_ , I mentally prefaced my reply. ‘I think so, yes. She’s a babe. I’m probably going to sign on.’

‘Really? Holy shit, that’s fantastic.’

‘It’ll make life ten times easier for me, I think. I’m fed up of doing everything myself.’

‘Learning to delegate was the best thing I learned for myself last year, it’s fucking life-changing. Good for you, Alma.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, a smile creeping onto my face unbidden.

‘Listen, I, uh… I called because I’m going to be away for a bit. Not _right_ away, but in two weeks, we’ll be leaving to go on tour.’

‘Oh,’ I said, my smile dropping as quickly as it came. ‘Right.’

‘So when I ask if you’re free tonight… I know it’s short notice but I don’t have much time left. Do you want to get dinner?’

I paced a little, walking up to the floor-to-ceiling window and back, chewing my lip. ‘Um. Okay.’

‘You don’t sound a hundred percent positive about that. You sure you’re free?’

I wasn’t in any doubt that I could renege on my plans with Frankie - he would understand. But I _was_ thrown by Matty’s suggestion. I hadn’t anticipated that he wanted to do things like that. ‘No - I mean, yes. I’m free. I’m sure, Matty. What sort of time?’

‘Eight? Half past at a push? I figured if it’s five now, it gives me time to get home from the studio first. I can pick you up in a cab, it’s on the way.’

‘A surprise, then?’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, love,’ he said, sounding a little weary. ‘Just a reliable spot.’

‘You sound tired.’

‘That’s ’cause I am, I’m bloody knackered. Looking forward to seeing you, though. That’ll be a much prettier end to my day than the one I’d resigned myself to.’

‘Which was?’

‘Depressing films and spliff ’til I pass out.’

‘Oh Matty, for god’s sake…’ I sighed affectionately. ‘I’m looking forward to it too. You’re right, this’ll be a much better alternative.’

‘Well, what else would _you_ be doing? Probably developing your photos in a darkroom. I can picture you, all sexy in the infra-red light.’

‘Please never mention sex and darkrooms in the same breath again,’ I snorted. ‘They’re so overdone.’

‘I know. There’s only a few cliches left worth subscribing to, I guess.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know… whatever antics Mick Jagger used to get away with.’

‘Are you comparing yourself to Mick Jagger?’

 _‘You_ called yourself David Bailey. You’ve hardly got a leg to stand on here.’

‘Anyway, do I have to dress up for this dinner?’ I switched subject, rolling my eyes.

‘Just wear your usual glad-rags. You’re always stunning.’

‘Charming. And you’ll be in…’

‘Head-to-toe leather. Boy on the Motorcycle.’

‘Okay, I’ll be Alain Delon tonight.’

‘Gender swap? Love it. See you at eight, Al - oh my god, it works! Alma. Alain.’

‘Eight on the dot, Marianne,’ I warned.

‘That’s Matty-anne, to you.’

I hung up, giggling, and caught the eye of the man on the front desk, who was frowning a little at my noisy call. Sod him, I thought, I’ve got a dinner to dress up for. What did he have? Kombucha and a wank in front of Architectural Digest? I wandered back through the gallery to find Sarah, smirking to myself.

***

_My parents are coming up this weekend, Joel said, stacking chemical trays in the darkroom at college. Do you want to meet them?_

_I blinked, and put my phone down. I wouldn’t mind, I guess. Why, do you want me to?_

_Well, they’re always asking me how I spend my time. And the truth is a lot of it’s with you. So I’ve told them about you._

_Oh yeah? I replied coyly, my heart thumping. What did you say?_

_He shrugged. I said that I’ve been hanging out with Alma, and she’s really interesting, you’d like her, etcetera..._

_My heart sank a little, but I laughed falsely instead of letting my disappointment show on my face. We left uni and boarded a bus to his place in Tufnell Park, and I went up to his room whilst he scoured the kitchen fridge for the remnants of last night’s Dominos order. He kept the place sparse, with an enormous mirror against one wall, and a couple of film posters tacked up above the redundant fireplace. I liked to watch us in the mirror when we fucked sometimes, admire how our naked bodies moved together and how his hands ran all over me, but it was less pleasant to catch my reflection when I was sucking him off. Not that I didn’t perform with enthusiasm, but there was something about the way his hands slid around the back of my head that felt a bit sordid, and I didn’t like to watch myself gag on his dick. It felt like a weird betrayal of my self-worth. I flopped onto the bed and sighed, listening to his neighbours argue through the old brick walls. A car alarm went off somewhere down the street. The late afternoon sun lit up the dust in the air: the picture was complete._

_Joel tramped up the stairs after ten minutes, a cardboard pizza box in one hand. Put a record on, yeah? I’m sick of their Berghain shit._

_He was referencing his flatmates’ techno proclivities. Privately, I didn’t mind it, but I dutifully knelt in front of the stack of LPs, running a finger down the cracked spines. I selected one and slid it carefully out of the pile - ’Til The Band Comes In._

_Thank god for Scott Walker, Joel snorted. Even if his later stuff did go off the rails a bit._

_The opening airs and atmospheric water drops gave way to triumphant orchestral strains, as Scott’s grand, slightly throaty voice permeated the air in Joel’s room. I felt as though I could sink into the sound, let it buffer my body like pillows and carry me off into an Antonioni film. It was music that sounded expensive, in that it reminded me of the Albert Hall, dark smoky restaurants in Belgravia and the basement of wine at Harrods. Joel spoke then, and broke the spell I was momentarily under._

_Come here, Allie. I’ve had an idea. He reached across the bed for his Leica, an object of envy to me that his dad bought him at the beginning of second year. I was still using an old Pentax, and was definitely far less free and easy with my film than he was, as the costs mounted up._

_What is it?_

_Look at me a second. You know what you did yesterday, with my tie? Can you do it again?_

_Joel… I whined. That was hot because we were both involved._

_He pulled his shirt over his head and wound the film along, his blue eyes boring into mine as he looked back up at me. We both are this time too. Come on. I want to see how it looks._

_You can see with your eyes! I tried to be fiercer this time, but it came out more playful than I intended, in avoiding his annoyance._

_You of all people know that’s not the same, he said lowly. Allie, darling... you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it would be beautiful._

_I blushed, fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt and raising it slowly over my head._

_Good girl, he muttered under his breath, lifting his camera up. The lens eyed me with its blank depths, and I shivered._

_He instructed me through it - undressing, taking the tie, putting it between my teeth. I let him drape me in his shirt, tugging that off again and cracking open one of the beers, drinking it lasciviously. And then he put his camera down and pulled me onto his lap so that I could feel his erection through his jeans. He told me I was the best he’d ever had. He told me I was his favourite subject._

_And I let him fuck me, face down in the sheets. The pizza grew cold in the box for a second time, and Scott Walker sang. What are you doing with the rest of your life? he sang. North and South and East and West of your life? I don’t know, Scott, I thought. I wish you’d tell me before I go and fuck it up._

***

I sat cross-legged on the ottoman in front of my dressing table, peering at my reflection closely to check a stray eyelash hadn’t fallen down onto my cheek. I was pleased with the result, despite being slightly suspicious of my own desire to impress Matty. But I loved it when he looked at me hungrily, like I was a prize for being as charming as he was.

Saul messaged me halfway through getting ready - _am i gonna see you anytime soon?_ \- and I couldn’t help snorting in disbelief.

 _sorry love, i’ve been so busy._ Love? Matty must have been rubbing off on me. I deleted the draft and retyped my reply. _sorry, been so busy! i’m not sure when i’ll be free next :(_

Even if I did want some fun at short notice, I probably wouldn’t crawl back to Saul. I’d just call Matty, or… or someone else. And Matty probably had something else going with someone, when I wasn’t free. I had learned by now not to seek all my satisfaction from the same place, sexual or otherwise. Though admittedly, nobody could quite hold a candle to Matty’s daring… he was perhaps the only partner whom I could say had taught me something about myself, and the way I ticked.

I reappraised my reflection; my hair sweeping long, thick and dark behind my ears, the pearlescent sheen above my eyes, the arc of my neck. I felt that I had a solid understanding of how I was perceived by others. They probably saw a well-put-together, striking young woman, a little reticent perhaps, but somewhat sure of herself, steely beneath the surface. The polaroid picture was propped up against the mirror, but I couldn’t remember placing it there. It must have been Matty’s doing, before he left. I undid a button on my shirt, letting it drop open a little wider at the top, and smoothed the dark silk of the collar. If dinner was his idea of foreplay, so be it.

He was only five minutes late, in the end, and blamed it on traffic. When I opened the door, coat in hand, I couldn’t help stalling, my eyebrows flying up. He’d only been teasing about the leather, and was instead looking very sleek indeed in a black suit and silk shirt, not the biker jacket and jeans I’d expected. The curls were teased into a perfect halo, the usual silver chain switched out for two fine gold ones, and smart patent loafers on his feet. God, I would have killed to put him in this outfit for a shoot.

‘Fucking hell, we’re matching,’ Matty exclaimed brightly, tugging at the silk knot tied over his chest tattoo. ‘Well, almost. Reckon you’d wear a suit, Alma? Maybe even this one?’ He wiggled his eyebrows, and reached out to take my hand.

‘If you’re lucky,’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘You do clean up well, don’t you? I thought we were just going to a ‘reliable spot’.’ I quoted him doubtfully, letting him lead me up the drive.

‘We are. But I like looking good for you.’ His fingers interlocked with mine, and squeezed mine briefly. ‘Car’s just waiting.’

I slid onto the back seat, and he sat beside me before slamming the door. As we drove off, I crossed one leg over the other and let my toe graze against his ankle, but a germ of chagrin grew somewhere in my chest, making it tighten and my mind go numb. When Matty asked me about the meeting with Sarah, my reply was listless and slightly stilted, though I seemed to pass it off, because he didn’t appear to notice. But I was still shocked at the effort he’d put in. It seemed at odds with our arrangement so far. It made things weirdly... official.

He’d booked a table at a Japanese restaurant in Spitalfields, the sort that was pleasantly understated but with luxuriously upholstered, rounded booths that afforded privacy, and my jaw dropped when I saw the menu. ‘Fucking hell,’ I muttered under my breath, opening up the sake list. ‘Not easy to get drunk here, is it?’

‘Don’t challenge me, Alma,’ Matty tutted, his eyes flashing between my face and the list. ‘I managed at the Chateau Marmont, I can manage here.’ He ordered alcohol for both of us, whilst I asked for a yakisoba, and then we were properly alone at last - no Uber driver, no waiter.

‘You said two weeks until the tour, didn’t you? What date do you go, exactly?’ I asked casually, resting my chin in my hand.

‘Let me think… the twenty-eighth. And then we’ll have a quick detour for Christmas, before getting back to, um… I think it’s Italy? Yeah, Italy.’ It was difficult to tell if he was excited about it or not. He spoke about it in such a frank, matter-of-fact tone.

‘Does it feel like a bit of a drag sometimes?’

‘Oh, no,’ he baulked, ‘not a drag. I probably take it for granted, actually. You saw me the other night, I love what I do. But it just… it warps things, being away for that long. And I don’t sleep easily.’ He fiddled with the folds of his napkin on the table, staring intently at the fabric for a moment before shaking his head, as if dispersing a cloud in his mind. ‘Plus there’s the fact that we won’t see each other for ages.’

‘Now that’s a _real_ travesty,’ I teased, a little sarcastic.

‘It kind of is, you know.’ He glanced down, looked abashed. ‘I’ll miss it.’

There was a long pause as the waiter appeared with the bottle of sake, pouring it out meticulously. I met Matty’s gaze over the glasses, keenly aware that his usual mischievous bluster had dropped. I smiled reassuringly, although I was internally retracing my steps, trying frantically to work out how we had got to this point, and what had given the impression we were _at_ this point.

‘So, like I said on the phone,’ he continued, ‘I want to make the most of the time we have until then.’ _He wants to… shag a lot?_ _No, he knew he didn’t need to take me to dinner to get his rocks off with me._ I nodded sagely, as if I understood. He switched tack at this point, much to my relief. ‘Anyway… I can’t wait to show those shots from Brixton to the guys. I think George will be relieved you got one where he’s not absolutely gurning.’

‘I think I’d like to shoot more gigs, you know. You’ve given me a taste for it.’

‘I did, did I?’ He grinned, and I knew we’d both landed on the pun. ‘You’ll have to get fast. You can only shoot for three songs normally, remember.’

‘You doubting me?’

‘Nah, of course not. You know I think you’re god’s gift to photography.’ He shrugged off his blazer, so he was just in the black silk shirt. We were so close to matching that it was comical. ‘There’s so many different places you can take your skill, I guess. You didn’t get very far into telling me about this new agent, in the car. What’s she been suggesting?’

I liked to hear Matty’s point of view, from a similar and yet markedly different industry. He and Sarah had mutual friends when he looked her up, and he remarked on this. ‘She works with Heather… oh and look, Frankie knows her too...’

‘And Farah’s friend Rami, apparently. I like how well connected Sarah is. Though I suppose she bloody should be, if she’s going to help get me booked.’

‘You know what they say, it’s who you know, isn’t it? Though I wish it weren’t the case.’

‘Well, ideally it’s both what _and_ who, right?’

‘Yeah, to boost your chances.’

When the food arrived, it was delicious; I ordered a side of kimchi, and Matty found this faintly ludicrous.

‘Hang on, isn’t that Korean food? I feel like I’ve been conned! What sort of Japanese place is this?’

‘Shush, don’t fuss - it’s probably pan-Asian,’ I tutted. ‘Anyway, who are you to say the Japanese don’t eat kimchi, hmm? Gonna start gatekeeping pickles now?’

He pinched a piece from my dish and tried some, pulling a face and raising his eyebrows in grudging approval. ‘Hmm… fine. Kimchi gets a pass, I guess.’

‘What’s this?’ I poked his ramen playfully with my chopstick.

‘It’s a, um… a bamboo shoot? I should probably know by now, I always order this stuff.’

As we teased each other over our food, we edged closer together around the semi-circular table until our legs were practically crossing over each other. I relished the feeling of his smart suit trousers against my tights, and as we waited for the bill to arrive, I couldn’t help thinking about the moment I would get to unzip them and take him in my mouth. The restaurant was quiet by now, most of the other punters having gone home. The place closed at eleven, and Matty and I were cutting it fine with quarter of an hour to go.

He insisted on paying rather than splitting, which I reluctantly allowed, tipsily making a claim that I would return the favour when he got back from tour. The evening had gone smoothly enough that I couldn’t envisage it being a problem to replicate. I would probably take him to my favourite Italian, or perhaps Nepalese if I was feeling ambitious. We linked arms outside the restaurant as he hailed a cab, partly to resist the cold and partly to prop one another up after having drunk half a bottle of sake and two cocktails each.

‘Can I take you back to mine?’ He implored, and I agreed, throwing my leg over his on the back seat of the cab. I eyeballed the driver in between long, lustful looks exchanged with Matty, checking that the way his fingers trailed up my thigh couldn’t be detected. As the city’s towers quickly fell away and the cab wove through the suburban streets of East London, I could feel my breathing getting more and more unsteady from anticipation; every time our gazes met, he looked at me in a way that made me burn hotly inside. We stumbled over the threshold of his flat, his hands on my waist as I kicked my shoes off.

‘Tell me… what do you want me to do?’ Matty muttered, his breath hot against my ear.

I licked my bottom lip as I turned around and slipped a hand into the front pocket of his trousers. His breath hitched, his eyes widening. I leaned in to kiss him, hovering over his lips momentarily.

‘Eat me up.’


	10. porcelain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Matty and Alma get home for some after-dinner treats, and Molly decides to take her best friend for their first night out in a while.

He wasted no time in beginning.

I threw my head back into his pillows as he tongued my clit, his lips enveloping my cunt and his eyes half closed in concentration. ‘Fuck, Matty, _fuck_ , your fucking tongue! Oh my god…’ My tights were in a wrinkled heap on the floor, my skirt bunched up around my waist.

He hummed into me, making wanton sounds of pleasure, completely removing any self-consciousness I might have had about the one-sidedness of the act, and when he pushed himself up quickly, his cock was hard in his trousers. He grabbed my hips and rolled me onto my front before diving down again, kissing the dip in my back and trailing his mouth down my arse. I struggled to crane my neck and watch, but had to bury my face in the pillows and suppress an agonised moan when he began to eat me out from behind, bracing himself between my thighs. My hips jerked forward as I came in a rush - always faster with him than anyone before - and Matty’s hands found mine, squeezing them tightly whilst I rode the orgasm out in waves. I lay there for a few seconds, breathing heavily.

‘Hey… Alma? You alright?’ He stroked the backs of my legs, and leaned down, peering at my face.

‘Yeah. More than alright.’ I pushed myself up from the bed languidly and reached for him, hooking a hand around the back of his neck and drawing him in to kiss deeply. My hand sought out his erection through his trousers, and he sat on the edge of the bed as I knelt down, kissing his cock over the dark material. I glanced up at his face before I touched his fly, savouring the hungry, covetous look in his eyes. ‘I want you to come in my mouth, okay?’

‘Okay,’ he replied in a half a groan. I drew the zip down, running my fingers over his cock. He stared down at me, physically sublime, not an angle or line out of place; I flipped the elastic of his underwear down and palmed his erection, the intoxicating dichotomy of soft skin and hard excitement. My tongue ran under the head as I tipped my head back so he could see my face as I drew my lips over his cock at last, letting him fill my mouth up to my limit. His hand drifted towards my head, but in a startling moment of tenderness, brushed my hair back and tucked it behind my eyes, careful even amidst the heaving breath and audible pleasure he was wracked with. The tattoo on his abdomen rippled with the convulsions of the muscles there, and I could feel the thrumming pulse of arousal between my lips.

‘Alma... _Alma_ , oh my god-’ Matty drew my name out slowly, agonisingly - a low, almost musical invocation. I constricted my throat around him, sucking at the base of his cock, pulling the pressure up to the tip and tugging with my hand. Trancelike, I repeated the action, my free hand clawing at his thigh, aware of his rasping breath and mounting tension in his muscles as he flexed beneath me.

I slowed for a minute or two, licking up the sides before taking him into my mouth again, letting myself moan a little around him, remembering how good it felt when he did the same to me. His expression twisted and became pained, though I knew it was pure pleasure, all of it - and with a gasp of relief, he spilled across my tongue. I ceased my movements and licked him clean, leaning my cheek against his stomach as I rested.

‘That’s the shit I’m gonna be thinking about in my hotel rooms… fuck…’ Matty groaned, cradling my head against him. ‘You’re the best I’ve had, you know.’

‘Don’t say that if it’s not true,’ I smirked, lifting my head to look at him.

‘But it is!’ He seemed mildly outraged. ‘You said you don’t exaggerate, remember? Well neither do I.’

I rolled off the bed, smoothing my skirt down. I wanted to say the same back - it was true, after all, but I felt funny about him knowing that. ‘I’m just gonna grab some water. You want anything?’

Matty shook his head, flopping backwards onto the sheets. I grinned, and paused for a moment, eyeing where his neck was glossy with sweat, a flush creeping up to his cheeks - so pretty, always so pretty that it made my breath catch a little. Perhaps he was extra attractive to me because he also embodied features I found hot in girls. Like a porcelain doll with a hangover. I traipsed through to his kitchen, gathering my hair off my neck and investigating his kitchen cupboards, locating a clean glass and filling it with water.

The view from his kitchen window overlooked a long garden that extended for at least twenty feet into the darkness, but it only looked to be accessible from the basement flat. Matty might have owned the top two floors, but he had no outdoor space, and whoever resided in the cramped lower level of the terrace was the more fortunate in this respect. I still wanted to photograph him on my patio, decked out in my clothes; maybe when the rose bushes were flowering. They made me think of the Lawrence Alma-Tadema paintings, the ones I was biased towards for my own name’s sake, but also their decadence, the mind-boggling detail in the blown rose petals and enthralled faces peeking through. I liked my full name. I certainly didn’t miss being called Allie. Molly was permitted to call me Al, at most. But the name was one of the things my dad had chosen well.

I drank deeply from the glass; the water was tepid, not too cold, the way I liked it. It touched the draining board as I set it down with a _clink_ , and jumped at Matty’s voice.

‘I like seeing you here.’

I turned to face him. He leaned insouciantly against the doorframe, in his black shirt and underwear. ‘What, the kitchen?’ I retorted.

‘ _No_ , you headcase. My home. My space.’ His gaze drifted towards the window now. ‘I don’t think I’ll be spending much more time here, though. It’s going up for sale next month.’

‘Really?’ I raised my eyebrows in interest. ‘How will you handle that while you’re away?’

‘I’ll let the agent do it. I don’t care how much it goes for, I’ve got more than enough for a new place,’ he replied flippantly, but his gaze fixed on me keenly. ‘Will you help me look?’

‘If you think I’ll be useful, then sure.’

‘I trust your opinion, so… yeah. Of course you’ll be useful. I hope it doesn’t take too long,’ he muttered darkly. ‘I don’t want to be living out of a suitcase in a hotel room for months on end.’

‘Not keen on a Chelsea Hotel situation? I’d have thought you’d be all about that life. There’s a sort of tragic romance about it, isn’t there?’

‘Yeah, but I’m not exactly Mapplethorpe, more’s the pity.’ He cocked his head to one side, shamelessly looking me up and down. ‘And Patti is cool... but you’re cooler.’ I grinned, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Matty stepped forward, circling my waist with his arms and tugging my hips towards him. ‘And so fucking fit.’

I pressed myself against him suggestively, pushing my chest into his. ‘Oh my god. Are you hard again?’

‘Hard enough.’ He kissed me, a kiss full of lust and wanting, insatiable for my mouth. I reached a hand up to the back of his head, pulling him into me, into the kiss, into my mouth. I felt like I was burning all over, combusting in a glorious heat.

In a fumbled rush, I pushed Matty’s underwear down again, and rose onto my tiptoes as he hoisted me up with one arm, another hand leveraging my arse upwards. I reached between my own legs, spreading my wetness onto his cock as it slipped between my upper thighs, before sinking onto it, crying aloud as he filled me. He fucked me hard and fast, thrusting into me against the counter; I felt myself lifted up by the force, my cunt aching from the sudden stimulation, a rushing, a pulsing. And as quickly as we began, he dropped me to the floor and encouraged me to turn, pulling my hips outward to jut into his.

‘Give me your hand,’ I said quickly.

‘What?’ He panted. I lifted mine to demonstrate, and he reached out. I brought his hand to my mouth, and he grasped the idea, pressing onto my tongue as I closed my lips over his fore- and middle-finger, sucking on them and projecting the force of my want into oral fixation. Matty shuddered against me, plunging upwards with his hips, and I released his fingers, which dropped to my clit and rubbed furious circles until I fell forward with another cry, leaning onto the counter on my forearms. He pulled me back up, lips at my neck again until he came too. ‘Fuck…’

‘Yeah,’ I breathed. He pulled his underwear up and my skirt down, wrapping an arm around my waist and gently kissing my shoulder; we stood like that for a few minutes, until I felt the tell-tale trickle down my leg, and pulled away to clean up, seeking out his bathroom. Matty began to roll a joint at the table as I wandered off.

My reflection in the mirror above the sink was startling. I looked well-fucked, which was accurate, I grudgingly admitted, and smoothed out my hair with my fingers. But I didn’t feel used, or disposable. I felt like a goddess, smudged mascara, messy knickers and all. All the doubts from the start, the consternation over mixing business with pleasure, seemed especially trite now. Every time Matty and I fucked felt like I was making up for all the bad sex I ever had, the sex that made me self-conscious, or that I reluctantly participated in. It was a perverse sort of cleansing.

The hum of music came from Matty’s living room, and I walked back through to find him smoking languidly to something shoegazey - I couldn’t put my finger on the artist - sprawled in the armchair near the mantelpiece.

‘Can I have some?’ I asked quietly.

Matty didn’t reply, only beckoning me over with his hand, and I stepped towards him until our knees almost touched. I took the joint from him, and lowered myself sideways into his lap. His pale skin had cooled in the air of his flat, and I ran my hand up the back of his neck and buried it in his hair, drawing on the joint between my lips and exhaling gently. ‘You alright?’ He asked mildly.

‘Yeah. I’m good.’ I placed the joint between his lips and propped myself up, my elbow resting on the arm of the chair. ‘You?’

‘Very. I like it when you touch my hair. A lot of people grab it, you know, at shows, even on the street. It’s a shame because it makes my hair an annoyance to me.’

‘I almost shaved my head at college.’

‘You’d probably pull it off.’

I shook my head. ‘Not my style, although Molly did it, and it grew back beautifully. I don’t know why I didn’t take the risk. I’m the one behind the lens these days, after all.’

‘Well, I like it now.’ His free hand toyed with the dark ends of my hair, sweeping them over my shoulder finally and placing a gentle kiss on my collarbone.

‘I saw where you put that polaroid,’ I said suddenly. I hadn’t planned to mention it, but I wanted to now.

‘In your mirror? Yeah. Did you only just notice?’

‘I’m not that vain,’ I grinned. ‘I thought you wanted it for yourself?’

‘I thought it might be a nice reminder for you, that someone else can take a good picture of you too.’

I didn’t reply, but rested my head in the crook of his shoulder and carried on twirling his curls between my fingers, listening to our breathing in time with the music.

‘Do you want anything from Europe?’

‘Like what? Can’t bring weed back from Amsterdam without getting stopped.’

‘Oh, I don’t know… we’re playing Rome and Milan, you know. I’m sure I can grab some fancy wine or something.’

‘Surprise me then.’ I gave his hair a final tousle, and got to my feet, buttoning up my shirt again.

‘What are you doing?’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Making myself look presentable again.’

‘You’re not staying over?’

‘Nah, got to get back,’ I said, the words coming out all in a rush. Matty’s looked at me oddly, toying with the lighter in his hand, the joint drooping between his fingers.

‘If you’re sure.’

I retrieved my tights and coat from his room, and poured another glass of water in the kitchen as I waited for the Uber. As the car pulled up, Matty stood in the doorway, offering up a lingering, smoky kiss as a form of goodbye. And as I walked down the front steps and slid onto the back seat of the car, I let out a heavy breath I hadn’t quite realised I’d been holding, a weight in my stomach dropping away. He had been subdued as I left, probably due to the late hour and the effect of the weed.

Having neglected to put my tights back on, the leather of the seat was cold against the backs of my thighs, and as I leaned back against the headrest, I could glimpse a full moon beaming through the night sky. It was an inky darkness rare in the city when so often the sky never faded beyond smoky purple, and I thought of home, for the first time in weeks - the Broads, the way you felt you could see the entire Milky Way from a car bonnet. I still didn’t want to go back from Christmas, but the memory twinged nevertheless.

***

Sarah emailed the next day with two new bookings - one high-fashion book, one profile for the New Yorker. Both were impressive but the latter especially made me gasp aloud, a portrait session at the subject’s home, an acclaimed author. I looked him up: strong face, not objectively handsome, but striking in a way that would be interesting to photograph. I had to admit to myself that I was already impressed by what Sarah was swinging for me, and it was a relief to hand some of the responsibility over for keeping the commissions rolling and the invoices paid. I wasn’t sure if these bookings had been confirmed on the strength of my name and work, or Sarah’s connections, but I wasn’t about to question it.

I set to work on adapting the downstairs studio for darkroom purposes, scouring the appropriate websites and acquiring the materials I needed. I went to visit Phil and Jan, stopping for coffee as they recounted their excited ideas for a trip to Sardinia and helped me jot down all the gear I would need, the best scanner I could nab second hand, the lesser known suppliers. I had kept a few rolls back over the last few weeks, so that I could gain the satisfaction of seeing some of my favourite recent work come to life by my own hand.

The days rolled by, and in the back of my mind I was acutely aware that Matty’s tour was drawing closer, though I hadn’t heard from him since our evening out. This struck me as odd, since he wanted to ‘ _make the most of the time we have left’_ \- a phrase that had unnerved me, and I hadn’t been able to identify why at the time, but I knew now that it felt like his attachment was growing into something I couldn’t be sure of fulfilling. And yet I still hoped to see his name pop up every time my phone buzzed, suggesting something diverting, another evening out, another shoot idea.

Every time my mind threw up a new image or concept, it was Matty I envisaged filling the role; as I edited the rather moody photos from a recent editorial, I mentally transposed a richly embellished velvet jacket from the bland male model to Matty. Even the press photos I took for a young designer, lit up in the watery sunlight of Victoria Park, hoodie tugged over his head and gaze lifted to the middle-distance - Matty would be resplendent in his stead, I knew, his dark eyes catching the light at a particular angle and revealing warm hazel depths, the chipped polish on his nails practically gothic against his pale hands.

The photograph I had taken as Matty leaned down towards me at the Academy sat in the middle of my worktop, blown up to life-size. I was proud of this one - the particles floating in the air, smoke or dust or whatever the crowd’s atmosphere threw up, they floated in a halo around his wild curls. Although I had been shooting from an angle far beneath him, his face had been turned down towards me, so his features were semi-silhouetted and faintly outlined in the blue haze.

I preferred photographing Matty’s face like this, when it wasn’t dramatically struck by harsh light and shadow, the soft elfin shape of his nose and lips delicately set against his smooth complexion, the slim fingers gripping the mic tightly, tipping it against his chin. In the days since, I found the song he had been singing, and played it over and over as I read one of the books Phil had lent me, curled up on the end of my sofa, remembering how my knees had sunk into the cushions as he pulled me against him.

I could look at the image for days. I couldn’t work out whether this was vanity about my own work, or an unhealthy fixation on his face, but either way, I didn’t allow it to distract me much longer, rolling up the print and noting the ways I thought I might still improve upon capturing him. Because it was never fully accomplished, really - the art of photography always strove to get closer to the real thing, and the closest tended to win out.

***

By the weekend, I still hadn’t heard a peep from Matty. I was cross at the extent of my own concern about this; after all, shouldn’t it suggest he was cooling off a little, as I’d hoped for? That didn’t mean he had to clock out altogether though. I knew he was in the city, and relatively unoccupied until the band left the following week. The increasingly full schedule Sarah was creating for me helped to occupy my own mind though, and I mindlessly swiped through some matches on a dating app, wrinkling my nose at their bad chat and pretentious photos.

Molly rang on Saturday morning to suggest an impromptu night out, dinner and dancing, and I agreed. ‘Better to get laid with someone you can scope out in a legitimately stylish setting,’ she teased over the phone. ‘Wear one of your white shirts with something that shows off your legs. And knee boots or something. Alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I agreed distractedly, looking up the night-time guides online to see if anywhere new had opened up. ‘Are we just drinking, or did you have anything extra in mind?’

‘What, my namesake? Nah, I’ve just got some joints. We could get some though. Is it one of those nights?’ she asked pointedly.

‘Maybe it should be,’ I sighed. ‘Alma and Molly and molly. Shall I see if Owen has a contact?’

‘Don’t bother, Stefan’s sorting it. I’ll come over at nine.’

I engaged myself in the therapeutics of picking an outfit and makeup that would make me feel like the party girl of my college days, worthy of whatever Dazed-and-Confused-approved venue Molly dragged us to, a get-up that would make Chloe Sevigny proud. When the doorbell rang and Molly bustled inside, she immediately put Aaliyah on loud in the kitchen and fished for a corkscrew in one of my drawers.

‘Alma, I have to say it… this has been _such_ a good idea of mine. I texted the others and Farah wasn’t free but Frankie is, so he’s meeting us at Superstore about eleven. And I couldn’t be arsed to fork out for Lanson at the off-license so it’s prosecco to start things off. Do you have those really elegant glasses, the ones that are posher than flutes?’

‘Coupes?’ I smirked, running a brush through my hair.

‘That’s the ones. Trust you to have all the right glassware…’

‘It was those posh catering jobs in first year. They do teach you some things...’

‘Of course it was.’ With a deafening pop, the cork sprang from the neck of the bottle, and Molly sipped the foam that threatened to drip onto the counter. She seemed hyperactive already, and I narrowed my eyes.

‘Have you already dropped some MD?’

‘Huh? No! No,’ she shook her head vigorously. I wasn’t wrong, though. She was almost agitated. ‘It’s in my bag, I haven’t touched it yet. I’ve just… it’s been a fucking nightmare of a week, and now I’m buzzing to be going out.’ She filled the coupes to the brim and took a sip of hers, leaning over the counter and taking some weight off the balls of her feet. She was wearing shiny black platforms, almost definitely nicked from the wardrobe at work, but paired with the pale green babydoll dress and her blonde hair pulled back into a topknot, she looked every inch the wild child.

‘I’m just gonna grab my bag from upstairs…’

‘Bring a camera too,’ she dropped back onto her heels again, her glass already half-empty. ‘Do you still have that little Olympus? It’s so good for nights out.’ She meant my point-and-shoot, a little nineties thing in plastic casing. It had received plenty of bumps and knocks over the years, but had also produced hundreds of images of us at our most reckless and carefree, monging out at festivals or shoving amateurish roast dinners in the oven of the house in Walthamstow.

I went down to the studio again to find the small camera amongst the rubble of other gear piled up, but couldn’t go upstairs again without a cursory check of the emails on my Mac. There was nothing new, only the latest Aesthetica newsletter in the preview window, opened up earlier in the day. I tutted to myself without quite knowing why, but stalled upon noticing Joel’s name. It was a review of the exhibition in Soho, now that he was home from his South America trip and conducting some sort of publicity carousel. I wanted to stamp my feet like a child every time I saw evidence of his success. It sickened me, even though I probably earned more, and had equal success.

But that was always the way, I thought to myself exasperatedly, turning back to the staircase and making my way up. Shitty people didn’t get bad karma, and suffering didn’t give me good karma. We all just rubbed along in the scene, despising one another from a distance. I hoped he despised me as I despised him. That way I could be sure of never being in his presence again.

It only took us another quarter of an hour to drain the bottle of prosecco, and Molly called a cab as I pulled on my jacket, glancing up and down approvingly at me. ‘I haven’t seen Frankie since that party at Farah’s, you know. She got another one coming up next week. Do you think Matty will come again?’

‘What?’ I blinked, startled by hearing his name. ‘Um… no, he’ll be on tour by then. He’s away for a couple of months.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Molly replied absent-mindedly, tracking the tiny car icon on the screen of her phone as it approached us. ‘I thought he might get along with Stefan if they talked more.’

‘How is Stef?’

‘He’s fine, a bit grumpy over some mix-up with a supplier in Rotterdam, but I think he’s secretly chuffed at how everything’s going.’ Stefan worked as a junior architect, mainly designing things like tasteful redevelopments of barns in Hertfordshire, supervising restorations of brutalist blocks, stuff like that. His current project was a townhouse in Chalk Farm though, and his ideas were always outlandish and ambitious. He was tight-lipped and gave off an imposing air, but positively doted on Molly, who was charmed by his air of quiet genius and confessed to having a weakness for his skinhead look and faintly industrial fashion sense. He was the furthest from either Joel or I that you could get, and for this, I was happy.

I could feel my energy creeping up in the car, and I felt a little bad for the driver as Molly made me shriek in laughter at some outrageous story she had for me, something about one of our old classmates from college that had been contracted by her boss. We stumbled out onto the corner of Kingsland Road, pulling our coats more tightly around us and shivering in the brisk night air.

‘C’mere,’ Molly tugged me by my elbow down a side street and ducked into a doorway, fumbling with the tiny packet in her pocket - one tiny bomb each. We necked them with the last of a plastic bottle of vodka and coke from home.

The road was bustling with people, clubbers spilling out onto the pavement from the smoking areas of venues. Molly marched ahead of me, brushing aside the leafleters with their drink deal bribes, and flashed her ID at the entrance to Superstore, the warm wash of pastel LEDs and heat from the bar bathing our faces as the doors opened. The serotonin rush was building as the MD kicked in; my Saturday night began its crescendo.


	11. that thing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alma hits East London for a night out with Molly, but anxieties about Matty's recent silence follow her everywhere - so she decides to pay him a visit and clear the air.

'Alma, get over here!' Frankie screeched, spotting me as I emerged from the loos and pouncing on me, his eyes sparkling with glitter daubed in the sockets. 'Come and meet Danny, he _adores_ your work,' he whispered-shouted in my ear. Squeezed between Molly and the gaudily decorated wall of the bar was a lanky guy with a sandy mop of hair, looking somewhat like a less sleazy version of Saul. I smiled drunkenly at him without really meeting his eye, and grabbed Molly's wrist.

'Let's dance, Moll, please. Before I get too tired.'

'Yeah - after I've got another cocktail, hang on...'

I followed her to the bar and leaned over the slightly sticky counter, not quite caring if any stray spirits got on the sleeve of my shirt. 'It's just weird he hasn't messaged, or... or called or anything... oh, god,' I slurred, 'do you think those photos were too much, Moll? The ones you saw?'

'I _highly_ doubt it. He must just be busy - rehearsals perhaps?' Molly shrugged. 'And I told you it would turn out to be some artist-muse situation. You're fixated now, look.'

'I am not!' I protested. 'And I don't think of it like that. I think I'm just horny.'

'Or lonely.' She pushed a mai tai into my hand, plucking the maraschino cherry from the top of the glass; she knew I didn't like them and would always give her the weird neon fruits impaled on toothpicks in drinks. 'Which is why we're out, bitch. Drink up. Haven't you got that New Yorker profile on Monday?'

'Yeah, but it's, like... _boring_ ,' I drawled, screwing my face up exaggeratedly. 'Writer sits on stool in study. Writer complains about bright lights and how old they look in a professional photo. Agent tries to make me pocket extra cash for touch-ups. Not to mention there's absolutely no decent chat.'

'You're spoilt, you know that?'

I watched Molly stalk past me and whip around as she hit the open floor, holding her drink high as she began to dance, grinning at me, cat-like. I rolled my eyes and joined her, squeezing between bodies until I was right in front of her, resting a hand on her waist, letting our hips move in tandem. She smelled like YSL Paris and Trebor Softmints, and I felt a rush of affection for her in the racket of the room - for Frankie too, hanging off a drag queen by the bar, and for Farah on her own night out, wherever she was. I closed my eyes, feeling the trancelike bass of the music through my feet.

It reminded me of Brixton, the electric sounds of Matty's set... he was a good dancer, I remembered, moving his hips almost independently of the rest of his body. I wondered how he would dance if he was here tonight, how utterly beautiful he could look under these pastel lights, how fun it would be to be sky high on mandy with him. I had spent so many quiet, peaceful, secluded times with him, and I suddenly wished deeply to be out in the chaotic world with him instead, moving through the night spontaneously, touching and sneaking kisses. I wanted to taste him and breathe him in. I wanted it so badly that I could feel the craving in every pore.

'Al... _Alma_ , hey' Molly grabbed me by the shoulders and hollered in my ear. 'You alright?'

I nodded dreamily, opening my eyes. 'Completely fine, Moll. I'm on cloud nine.'

'Could you try not to look like you're astrally projecting in the middle of the club? If I didn't know all you'd taken was MD, I'd think you were k-holing.'

I shook my head. 'Can we go in a bit? I just want us to sit at home again and sing along to stuff... maybe get some more prosecco. I'll even fork out for proper bubbly.'

'Oh, you wally,' she tutted, 'we're not drinking champagne until I get fucking promoted. But fine. Mine or yours?'

'Yours.' I didn't want to be in the house on my own tonight, and Molly's flat in Bethnal Green was cosily familiar anyway. We gathered our things and said our farewells to Frankie before he disappeared into the toilets with the decidedly bisexual Danny, who I had definitely seen giving him a hickey just minutes before. In the cab, I sleepily filled Molly in on the dinner with Matty and the sex after, not that she asked, but because we were in the habit of oversharing with each other, and she humoured me and listened until we reached the flat, and had to bundle out of the car.

'Can't believe the stuff you subjected that poor driver's ears to, Al,' she chuckled, putting her key in the door. 'I'll need to check my Uber rating. Might've dropped due to gross indecency or whatever it's called.'

'Oh, please,' I grumbled, 'it's their night-time entertainment.' I kicked my shoes off and slumped onto her sofa as she went to find glasses for the bottle we'd bought - a cheap Chardonnay, nothing classy. Molly's home decor was very white, offset with pastel colours: powder blue lounge set, lemon yellow cushion covers, eau de nil rug, a far cry from my place and its rich dark blues, reds and purples. The clock on the wall read half one in the morning, beside several frames containing my photographs, the informal portraits I had done for my friends and the candid group shots from summer trips to the coast. I stared at the images and zoned out on the sofa, vaguely aware of Lauryn Hill singing Doo Wop in the background through Molly's speaker system.

'Got to keep it down so the neighbours don't start again,' she muttered, kicking her shoes off beside mine and handing me a brimming wine glass. 'I can't deal with another fucking letter from the council. How do you feel now?'

'Blissful,' I replied, forcing my eyelids open so she wouldn't think I was nodding off, though there was still some danger of that happening now I had extra wine too.

'Well, I'm glad you are, for one,' she sighed, sinking onto the sofa beside me, sipping quietly from her glass. She turned a little to look at me directly. 'I'm thinking of going back to uni, Al.'

'What?' My eyes flew open then, and I straightened up against the cushions. 'Really? What's prompted that?'

'I'm just so fucking sick of my job. I know how it looks on paper, but I've been doing the same shit for two years - doing it _well_ , mind you - with no hint of recognition or path opening up,' she shook her head in disgust. 'And I know people keep saying _that's just the industry, Molly, you have to suck it up_ \- but I'm exhausted now. I really don't see the point any more.'

'What will you do?' I asked doubtfully, wishing I was more sober for this conversation.

'I'll go back to sculpture or something. I don't know why I stopped, really. You just get used to a certain way of living, don't you?' she said quietly. 'I wanted more money.'

In uni, this had been Molly's chosen medium. She used to make eerily lifelike doll figures, casting them in pewter and bronze, whatever she could get her hands on that the college might also fund. And then she moved onto clay, making small armies of woodland creatures like a fucked up brand of Sylvanian Families. With offcuts, she made us all tea sets for Christmas and birthdays, not the lopsided creations of an amateur but immaculately shaped, impossibly delicate pieces glazed in an inky black gloss. Her uncanny eye for detail had translated well to language, first of all in proof-reading for extra cash from other students, and then in editing at different publications. We were all well-connected in one way or another, coming from that institution, so big names like Vice and iD weren't difficult to sidle into. But it was another thing to break out of an administrative pigeonhole like the one Molly was in.

'I loved your stuff,' I said softly. 'I'd pay hundreds for it.'

'Do you think other people would? If I was a bit entrepreneurial about it?' she asked.

'Sure, especially in bougie parts of North London, locate the yummy mummies with new houses to decorate...' The logistics sank in then, and I frowned. 'You _will_ be in London, won't you?'

'Alma, I have to move home. To Brighton.'

The pit of my stomach dropped. 'You serious? You don't think it's feasible? You could move in with me, Molly! Please, I don't want you to leave if you think you have to-'

'I want to leave. I'm being deadly honest with you.' She sipped at her wine calmly, but her averted gaze gave away her unsteady nerves. 'You're the first person I've told. I don't know how I'm going to tell Stef.'

'Fuck,' I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and setting my glass down on the coffee table. 'What the hell will I do?'

'Visit me, obviously,' she replied drily. 'Everyone can, if they want. If they remember to.'

I rolled my eyes, and sighed loudly, but when I poked her in the side it was affectionate. 'Don't get maudlin about it. You know I love the seaside. I've missed it.'

'You'll be there soon, though, sooner than me surely? I won't get to finish at work until the 22nd.'

'I'm staying in London for Christmas.'

Molly paused; I knew what was going through her mind. 'You're sure you don't want to come to mine? My parents love you, they'll be glad to have you.'

'No, it's okay. I'm weirdly looking forward to being alone, actually,' I shrugged, and got to my feet, locating the speaker as Doo Wop came to an end. 'D'you mind?'

She shook her head, and I connected my phone, picking some Bad Seeds. I shot a grin in Molly's direction, and she laughed out loud. 'Dark as fuck. Very appropriate.'

I retrieved the bottle of wine and topped up both our glasses as we caroused across her fluffy carpet, taking care not to spill a drop but drinking it down like water. We fished out remnants of the powdered MD from the packet from earlier, licking it off our pinkie fingers and giggling as a final rush buoyed us up again, even as Nick Cave's growl lowered the vibrations in the air by several degrees. Molly took my face in her hands as she mouthed the lyrics, her cheeks radiantly pink from exertion, the wisps of blonde hair coming loose from her topknot and framing her face. Her lipstick had faded, leaving only the slightest tint, and I could sense my eyes glazing over as I fixed upon her mouth.

Within seconds we were kissing, and it was like coming home suddenly, abruptly; my hands circled her soft waist, pulling us tightly against one another, chest to chest - no girl had ever felt like Molly did, not the ones from Tinder or the model at the show Farah snuck us into, or even Joel's housemate... _Paris and Softmints_ , I inhaled them as she sighed into my mouth.

'Fuck - Alma...' she yanked herself back, a hand clapped over her lips and her eyes wide in alarm.

'Shit,' I whispered, a lump rising in my throat. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.' Her arms still circled me, and she drew me in for a hug, holding me tightly. 'I know it feels nice, but... we don't do this any more.' We hovered there for a few moments more, swaying in time with the music. 'You were the first girl I ever kissed.'

'I know, silly,' I mumbled into her shoulder. 'You told me you were surprised at how much you liked it, the first time.'

'I can barely remember... you remember how fucked up I used to get. I can't believe you were willing to look after me all those times.' She went to pull away, but I held onto her more tightly for a few seconds more, and she let me, before speaking again sharply. 'It won't distract you, you know, whatever that was.'

'Huh?' I drew back now. Molly chewed her lip, and I felt a little awkward standing there on the rug, so I bent down to inspect the wine bottle and found it disappointingly empty.

'Sleeping with me won't make you forget your anxiety about Matty.'

'I'm not anxious,' I snapped, turning away to rinse my glass out in her kitchen. Molly followed me.

'You're radiating it, Alma, for god's sake. You know I remember how you get.'

'It's nothing like that. It's totally different.' The lump rose higher in my throat, threatening to break as I turned the kitchen tap on forcefully, holding a finger under it to feel for hot water.

'You don't think... the pictures... you're not just trying to get control over the process this time?' She crossed her arms; I couldn't bear the way her gaze pierced mine. My bottom lip twitched at one corner, threatening to crumple my whole face.

'Don't psychoanalyse me. I'm too tired for this.' I filled the glass up with water instead and turned towards the window, leaning my head against the frame.

The music ceased as she unplugged my phone, switching the stereo off. I listened as her footsteps faded, along with her voice: 'I'm going to sleep. I'll leave a shirt out for you.'

I concentrated on breathing steadily until the tightness in my chest loosened and the lump in my throat subsided, the draught from the window drying the moisture in the corners of my eyes. Embarrassment was perhaps the emotion I feared the most. It reached deep inside me and ransacked my ego, scraping away at my carefully constructed sense of self. Because that had been a conscious process too, it needed to be if I could be sure that no part of it was unknown even to me. _No alarms and no surprises_ , I heard the lyric in my head, laughing bitterly and humorlessly to myself at the oddity of it arriving in my mind just then. That was probably what I needed over Christmas, I thought to myself, an emotional exorcism soundtracked by Thom Yorke. Clearly whatever was pent up inside me tonight was rising dangerously near the surface. Perhaps it could be mined for gold, some sort of inspiration. This was the most optimistic way of looking at it, but privately I was also alarmed at my own volatility. And then I remembered the influence of the drugs and alcohol, put it down to them and closed the case in my mind.

Having pacified myself, I padded along to Molly's room and slipped through the gap between the door and the wall, so that it wouldn't creak and wake her. I stripped and pulled the soft shirt over my head, a striped, misshapen blue thing I had almost definitely worn before and maybe even gifted her in uni. She murmured something in her sleep and rolled in my direction, her hair loose in a cloud around her face. I pulled at the curtain a little to keep out the sliver of moonlight that streaked across the carpet, and slipped under the covers beside her.

I loved Molly, and I loved my mum in a complex way, and I had loved Joel once, in a very foolish way. I felt that I knew the different ways that love manifested - I could count them on my hand, neatly categorised. And then there was the more casual affection for those constants in my life: Frankie, Farah, Phil, hopefully Sarah in the future. Then the strange twilight zone for those I cared deeply about once but felt disconnected from now: Ruth, Emma, my dad. I knew what love was. And I knew the difference between love and obsession. I wanted to wake Molly and tell her that, lay out a thesis, a Ted talk, a School of Life worthy of de Botton himself. But I didn't. I listened as her breathing slowed beside me, and watched a tiny spider make its way across her ceiling, unbothered by the rumble of traffic on the main road, and my storm of thoughts.

***

The next day, Sunday, Molly and I breakfasted as though the evening had gone as smoothly as any other, until I was in the process of checking my coat pockets and lacing up my faintly ridiculous knee boots. Molly paused in front of me in the hallway, her arms unfolding as she crouched down next to me.

'I'm not going to apply for the Masters for another few months, Al, okay? I'm not leaving here that quickly,' she said softly. 'I have to wait until next autumn.'

I nodded dumbly, smiling in reassurance. Our goodbye hug was a little tighter than usual, the unspoken weighing in our arms. 'Well. I'm glad. And I'm glad _for_ you as well, you know. I don't know if I made that clear before.'

'I know you are, so it doesn't much matter,' she grinned, drawing back the latch on the door and pulling it open as I stepped out. 'Let me know if you hear from Matty this week.'

I waved goodbye and found my way to the bus stop, following an impulse to save the taxi money on such a short trip up the road. I would have walked it but my boots were pinching from the night's dancing, and besides, there were plenty of people on Sunday morning buses dressed in Saturday night's clothes. In some parts of the city, Saturday night hadn't even ended. A small voice at the back of my mind piped up that, if I stayed on this bus and didn't get off at my stop, I would end up at Matty's. The thought faintly thrilled me for a moment, before I remembered the early hour and my current get-up. It wasn't a good look - not that I didn't look hot as hell still, but it would appear wildly impulsive, far beyond my own spontaneous capacity.

I compromised by waiting a few hours at home, soaking in a hot bath for an hour before waiting for my hair to dry, lazily cooking pasta with garlic and olive oil whilst the TV played in the background. I felt quite calm and at ease after the tensions at Molly's the night before. Perhaps I wouldn't need a Radiohead-induced exorcism after all. I broke up some pieces of stale bread from the kitchen sideboard and threw them onto the patio, watching blackbirds tear them apart and bicker over crumbs. Pasta hadn't tasted so good in months.

The camera I had taken out with me last night was full; I popped the used roll out and left it on the side to be taken downstairs for processing later. As an afterthought, I broke open a box of Portra rolls and put a new one in, throwing the little camera in my coat pocket just in case. In the bright, vivid sunlight of the winter afternoon, perhaps I could persuade him to take a walk to the Marshes with me - that way the pictures could even be legitimate for his own use, no hint of public indecency.

I flipped up the collar of my coat as I plunged back into the icy winter air, smiling to myself as I envisaged him again. And yet it wasn't until I was steps away from his front door that it occurred to me he might not be alone on a Sunday morning. But I could weather any interaction, at this point. _Two weeks... one week..._ for all I knew I might not get another chance.

I knocked once, twice. He came to the door bleary-eyed and topless, tucking a hand under his arm at the shock of the cold. 'Hey,' I said, as brightly as I could muster. 'It's been a little while, and I...' My words trailed off, amputated mid-sentence. Matty's cheeks flushed pink, his face tense and unsmiling at my greeting. 'If you're not alone, I can come back later.'

'Why wouldn't I be alone?' He replied at last, tiredly. 'Come inside, quickly, before I catch my death.'

I squeezed past him and into the hallway. 'Are you okay? I hadn't heard from you, and I know there's only a few more days until you leave.'

'I'm fine,' he said shortly. 'Sleeping badly, as usual. But that's all.'

I remembered him mentioning this off-handedly before, and it had struck me as odd, considering the way I'd seen him pass out with utter ease on more than one occasion. I wished I'd brought something then, coffee at the very least, just because sometimes it was nicer bought than made yourself. Matty wandered into the living room, and it was immediately apparent that he'd slept on the sofa, the cushions stacked at one end, the ashtray on the coffee table crowded with fag-ends. The turntable by the window hissed and crackled on a loop, the spinning record long since played to the end.

He seemed to appraise the room self-consciously, now that I was here, and lifted the needle, slipping the record back inside its sleeve. 'Sorry it's a bit of a state.'

I shook my head, sitting down in the chair. 'Not at all. You should have seen some of the student houses I had to subsist in.'

Matty grimaced and shrugged. 'Hang on a second.'

I took this as a cue not to follow him into the kitchen as he scooped up a couple of mugs and took them through, and sat with a growing unease, listening to the water running from the tap as he cleaned them out. There was a tangible sense of relief that I felt upon finding him alone after all, more than I had expected, in the end. And even in a rough state he was still charming, though I sensed I was seeing him in a more reticent mood now. He was changeable, I knew that. But this was still unsettling.

He appeared in the doorway again suddenly, making me jump. 'Alright then, what is this? Why are you here?'

I stalled for a moment, stumped by his tone. 'I - you heard me before, I just wanted to see how you were.'

'That's a first,' he said cruelly.

'What do you mean?' I replied, thrown off-guard.

'Well, how do you normally think of me? What am I to you?'

'You're my friend. Aren't you?'

'Okay.'

'And... and we collaborate. Which you seem happy to do.'

'And we sleep together,' he replied flatly, stepping further inside the room and crossing his arms over his chest again.

'Yeah, like a lot of people do. It's been part of the fun, hasn't it?' My chest grew tighter, and I squeezed my knees together, trying to give myself some physical feeling to latch onto and stop myself panicking at the growing confrontation. 'I didn't think you minded?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Matty threw his hands up in frustration finally, slumping down onto the sofa. 'It's not that, I guess... it's just weird that you don't want to hang out at other times too, just for the sake of it. If we actually are friends then why can't we have breakfast together? We're both busy people, I get it... but why can't we just be in each other's presence purely for the company?'

 _I never said I never wanted that too,_ I thought furiously. But there was no way I was saying that out loud. 'Because...' I faltered. 'Because we sleep together.'

'Exactly,' Matty said shortly.

'What are you saying? That we should stop?'

He didn't reply, and didn't meet my eye. I thought perhaps because the answer was no, and he probably enjoyed our little bouts of experimentation too much to deny himself. A mean thought, one which I regretted soon after. Passing his lighter between his hands, he spoke finally. 'So, we just... take risqué photos for your portfolio and get each other off, is that it?'

'Don't say it like that, Matty,' I winced at his phrasing.

'Well, what do you want me to call it? Fuck buddies?'

'I don't _know._ I thought that was what you wanted!' I could hear the pitch of my voice rising. 'What have I said or done exactly?'

'Oh fucking hell, Alma, it's not one single thing,' he lifted his head, seeming genuinely angry; seeing his face twisted with it made me feel sick to my stomach. 'It's how you make me feel, whether you intend to or not.'

'Which is?' I replied hotly, felt my cheeks burning with indignance.

'Like I'm just a pretty face. Does what I have to say have any bearing, for you? Like, do you actually _enjoy_ my company?'

'Yes, I-'

'Because sometimes I just feel stupid, like I'm missing a trick somewhere or there's something I'm too dumb to understand-'

'You're smart, Matty!' I burst out. 'You're fucking clever! What am I supposed to say?'

'But look at what you have - what your friends have!' Matty threw his hands up in emphasis. 'That legitimises it! I feel like a fucking fraud sometimes, you know that?'

'Why? I thought you had conviction.'

'But it doesn't come easily, alright? I don't know from one day to the next whether I'm making an absolute tit of myself or not.'

'Everyone has the same struggle. Honest.'

'Oh yeah, right _._ But it's a privilege, can't you see that? You've been coddled in this cosy little world of academia for years - and in some ways, you're still in it.'

'Of course I see that!' I was stricken. 'I don't take it for granted for one second. Do you really think that I do? When have I ever given that impression?'

'You don't - I mean, I know you don't actually take it for-'

'So why are you so fucking pressed, Matty?' I shot back. 'You want me to give you a pat on the back and tell you that you belong? You're already more successful than most people can dream of. It doesn't much look like intellect has ever been an issue for you.'

Matty's knee bobbed aggressively, and he suddenly stood up, too restless to remain seated. 'People still think I'm a pretender. There's a big fat fucking difference between our disciplines.'

'Look, you tie yourself in knots trying to make yourself understood,' I said impatiently. 'That should be evidence enough you're not faking anything.' I couldn't fathom his apparent insecurity. Of all the people I'd ever slept with - yes, including Joel and Molly - Matty was the most eloquent, the most charming, most fiercely opinionated. He could never bore me. And the very last thing I could think him to be was witless. Nothing slipped past him, except my own high opinion of him, it seemed. 'I wish you'd have told me something about how you were feeling before now.'

'Like that's so easy!' He retorted, eyes flashing. 'God, I sound like a fucking mug. _Alma_ ,' he mimicked, his fingers forming air quotes, ' _do you call this dating_? I've never met someone like you. I hardly know what I'm doing.'

'Trust me,' I shot back in exasperation, 'this isn't what I normally do either. That is... I don't get mixed up with the people I photograph. And I'm not looking for a relationship, or anything that might disrupt the balance.' My voice softened and became detached, as though I was reciting the words by rote. It was true, I told myself the same thing often enough. 'I've worked really hard for what I have. And... I don't want to hurt myself or anybody else. Does that make sense?' _I don't, I don't, I don't_. I sounded like a stuck record. _And now_ , I thought, _I do, but only right now, because it's complicated_. 'I broke my rule, with you.'

'Oh, really? How _flattering_ ,' Matty snapped, his sarcasm cutting right through me. 'I didn't know I was messing shit up for you. I wish you'd fucking told me.' He inhaled sharply on his cigarette. I stared very hard at the keyboard that sat in the corner of the room, speechless, desperately trying to control my surging emotion; indignation and humiliation were becoming interchangeable quite suddenly.

'Fine then,' he said at last. 'What about the next time something happens?'

'We'll make sure there won't be a next time.'

Matty raised his eyebrows witheringly, infuriatingly. We both knew it was a lie. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. The floodgates had been opened. I half expected him to snap back at me again, but he sat down beside me instead at last, so close that our knees almost touched. 'Listen... like it or not, I perceive you as a whole person, and I know that sounds weird. Essentially, I admire you _and_ I'm attracted to you,' he sighed. 'I'm sorry.'

'Oh, don't apologise, it's so passive aggressive. You don't mean it,' I said sharply, barely pausing to consider my words. He looked up again, wounded, and I backtracked. 'Shit. _I'm_ sorry. That was mean. You don't have anything to be sorry about, is the point.'

'Maybe neither of us do, at the end of the day,' Matty shrugged. There was another silence, and this time it was me who leaned forward and took a cigarette from the pack wordlessly. He sat down next to me again.

'I hate arguing with you,' I said, as briskly as I could manage. 'I think we should try and forget any of this happened. Go back to being friends.'

'How will that work then?' he asked, his tone no longer cross, but somehow worse now that it was dejected. We were starting to go around in circles.

'Well, I haven't forgotten what you said,' I looked at the floor, watching the smoke plume in front of me as I exhaled. 'If you do like me - the way you implied - and that made the sex complicated... would it also make being friends complicated?'

'I can't work it out,' Matty's voice cracked. My chest tightened as though gripped by a vice. 'Can you just be straight with me, Alma? Do you actually like me or not?'

' _Yes_. I think you're gorgeous, and clever, and funny, and I love your company.' I relished saying the words now, in too much blunt clarity for him to miss.

'Okay.' He stalled for a moment, rubbing his brow with his thumb. 'And you're a hundred percent sure you don't want to give anything more a go?'

'I don't want a relationship, Matty. Especially not with someone who's about to disappear for two months,' I replied, as kindly as I could. 'And sleeping with you is... well, you know what I get out of it, and I think you get the same. It's fucking amazing. But it's gotten in the way of the reason we started all of this, in the first place, which was to collaborate.'

'I don't think it has,' he said hopefully. 'I think it's kind of a natural precursor to what ended up happening, or... the sex was an extension of the photos. Does that make sense?'

I hesitated. _He wants too much_. 'But if the two are interlinked, then how can I rationalise it?'

'Rationalise seeing me?'

I didn't reply. Matty whistled under his breath in disbelief, and stubbed the cigarette out on the dish in front of him. His tone grew icy.

'You should go, Alma.'

'But... Matty, I just-'

'Before I say something I'll regret.' His gaze seemed fixed upon the opposite wall, his breathing strained and controlled. I felt so cold that I was convinced the weather outside would feel no different as I grabbed my coat and pulled it on, the time it took to put my arms in the sleeves feeling agonisingly infinite. There were about a thousand things I wanted to say, all at once, but as each one came to me, it seemed wildly more inappropriate than the last.

Instead, I touched his shoulder timidly, right where it met his neck. Matty's skin was as smooth and warm as ever, though he didn't flinch at my cold hand. But he didn't respond in any other way either, and merely continued to stare straight ahead until I squeezed lightly with the heel of my palm, and he jerked his shoulder up and away from me, forcing my hand to drop. His face turned to the wall, so I couldn't see his expression.

I pulled my hand away quickly, stood up and walked out, closing the front door behind me. Stepping out blindly, I retraced my steps to the corner shop we went to the night of his party; the same elderly man sat at the till, nodding absent-mindedly before returning his focus to the Hindi soap on the tiny television. I sidled past the crisps and cold cans until I reached the silent back shelves, and amongst the biscuits and bog roll and dog food, I buried my face in my hands and let myself sob.

***

Friday, the twenty-eighth. The overground platform was empty and windswept, my train not due for another ten minutes; I checked the time on my phone. I didn't even know exactly when Matty was supposed to fly out, but the first show was in Paris tomorrow, so either way the day was a period of limbo. My fingers were growing numb from the cold, and I let them, just to get that stinging, tingling feeling in the tips, and then the burning sensation when I finally boarded the warm carriage.

Sarah lived in a posh hinterland between Finchley Road and West Hampstead. I had pounced on her suggestion to get an early lunch - anything to get myself out of the flat, see someone, anyone, just to distract myself from the dull ache in my chest. Funny how emotional stress manifested physically as well. I made a detour on the way to the station to go past a letterbox, taking it as a good sign that I managed to squeeze the stiff cardboard envelope through the shiny red oblong mouth; still, no amount of 'Fragile! Do Not Bend!' stickers would entirely appease my anxiety.

I could have slipped it through his door's letterbox myself, but I couldn't face walking up there again, even with him gone. Between the sheaves of stiff board was a small print - my favourite, and I hoped his too. When he got home, he would see it. And he could do what he wanted it with it, beyond that, but at least I knew the image wouldn't leave him - the first time I smudged makeup around his eyes, curled up in my armchair, the first photograph after I let him touch me all over and bring me pleasure. But that wasn't relevant any more, not to the photo and not to my memories, not in the same way.

I looked at the image now, and I saw how open his face had been. And I thought, just maybe, that I might have achieved what I was seeking then, without knowing it. It was my souvenir of a perfect instant in time, and now it could be his.


End file.
